Bad Romance
by uchiha.s
Summary: She loved him first.
1. 1: Adrift in Time

Bad Romance

Summary: Voldemort has won and Hermione has lost everything. She decides to go back in time and destroy the horcruxes in secret. But that proves to be harder than she thought, especially now that she's caught Tom Riddle's interest.

Chapter One

"We've lost. It's over," moaned Ginny, sinking to her knees before Harry's lifeless body. Behind her stood Hermione, white as a ghost. Around her, the Hogwarts she had grown up with lay in ruins as well as the people who had inhabited it.

Soon, Voldemort would be commanding his forces to take hold of the survivors officially. Somewhere in the distance, Hermione dimly registered Bellatrix's infamous cackle, and she turned and left Ginny, picking her way through the crumbling stone and bloodied flesh. _It's over. You'll never see Harry or Ron or anyone you loved ever again. _What would happen now? Would she become a slave of the Death Eaters? Would they simply torture her to death?

She couldn't bear Ginny's sobs so she walked away faster, thinking only of the various dignified ways she could end her life. _It's over, it's over,_ she kept hearing in her head. _No need for bravery now; everything is lost._

Finding a secluded spot near the Forbidden Forest, Hermione leaned against a tree to stare out at the great lake. Her beaded bag clutched in her clammy palm, she mentally listed the things in it that could be used as a means for suicide. She was shocked to realize that there were quite a few options, and her blood turned to ice.

_There is my wand...a knife...poison..._ It was only right that she die with Harry and Ron, and yet, something, somewhere within her, cried out to her: _no! It's not over yet! _

She wanted to tell her damned Gryffindor spirit to quiet itself as she began searching for the poison, her arm digging all the way into the little beaded bag, when her fingertips brushed something smooth, cold, and small.

_The time turner. Stupid thing, really, _she thought bitterly, remembering with pain worse than the Crucio curse how happy they had all been, in spite of everything. It seemed so long ago—had it really been a mere four years?

_If only I could go back and tell my past self to enjoy it more while it lasted, _she thought bitterly as she viciously wiped away the tears spilling down her cheeks. _Why did I ever have the nerve to be unhappy about _anything? _At least I still had my friends then. _

_If only I could go back and destroy Voldemort without affecting my time with Harry and Ron. If only the Horcruxes could have already been taken care of..._

And then, her Gryffindor spirit roared to life within her as her keen mind began forming a plan. Disgusted with her previous self-pitying thoughts, Hermione wrenched the time-turner from her bag and held it up in the pale dusty light of dawn. Distantly were the familiar calls and whoops of triumphant Death Eaters, and the shrieks of the piteous survivors.

"It's not over," she spoke aloud, and despite everything, she grinned. It was so perfect—and even if she failed...well, nothing could be worse than this.

She turned it round and round, the sand hissing as it rolled in the glass, and with that peculiar swooping sound not unlike a portkey, Hermione was yanked from her own hellish time and sent back to what she hoped was October thirty first, 1947.

* * *

><p>Time-traveling was painful. With a groan, Hermione felt around her on the ground, searching for her bag and the time-turner, which she had stupidly dropped. Her hands came in contact with wet grass and she determined that she was on the castle grounds, at least. It was dawn and heavy mist shrouded both her and the castle, its form strangely menacing in the purple morning light.<p>

_No, it's only menacing because you just saw it in ruins,_ she chided herself. Standing up shakily, she clutched the beaded bag. The time-turner was nowhere to be found.

_Damn. _That was bad. They weren't exactly the kinds of things that were fine to leave lying around. Panicking, she began combing the grass around her, the dew sopping the knees and shins of her jeans as she pawed around. She was so busy panicking she didn't notice a figure approaching through the mist.

"Students out of bed! Students out of bed!" A thin, reedy voice cackled, a lantern swinging and settingh the mist around it aglow with yellowed light. Hermione's head shot up and immediately she rose to her feet. She could search for the time-turner later.

"E-er, hello," she greeted in an unconvincing casual tone, running a hand over her hair. She knew she looked a nightmare, and as the figure slowed to a stop, shock was evident on his face.

He wasn't Filch, but he may as well have been, with his leathery skin and missing teeth. "I'm Hermione," she stammered, trying to think fast. _Good thing it's my brains I'm known for, _ she thought wryly. "I just took a portkey here and I'm a bit lost," she continued.

"...Headmaster Dippet won't like this," the caretaker finally said, baring his remaining teeth in an unsettling grin. "Come with me, Miss..."

"Macmillian," she replied with the first non-magical name that popped into her head. With a distinct sense of foreboding, she followed the caretaker, frantically trying to remember this place so she could return to search for the time-turner. At the same time, she had to come up with a convincing cover story. _At least Voldemort's graduated already,_ she thought, wiping her brow. This was her only comfort for her situation.

Unfortunately she was soon to find out that her hands had shaken and she had taken herself to September first, 1944, instead.


	2. 2: Prince Charming

Bad Romance

Author's Notes: I am keeping the buildup to the real plot of this story brief; as such if you find that the beginning moves fast, please let me know but do understand that I see no reason to write out every detail.

Also note that this fic is an experiment for me. I have never tried my hand at an HP fanfic, and though I have cobbled together some facts about Hogwarts during Riddle's time there, please **do** point out any details that are missing or incorrect.

And finally: Hermione may seem a bit…emo, I guess, in this chapter but recall that she has literally just watched her best friends die. Don't worry, she'll be back (at least somewhat) to the Hermione Granger we all know and love by the end of the chapter.

Chapter Two: Prince Charming

"Students out of bed!" The caretaker cackled once again as the doors of the Great Hall swung shut with a _thud _behind them. The Great Hall itself was devoid of its usual tables, and the bewitched ceiling cast a melancholy purple haze over the empty room. Hermione shot him a glower that made her look braver than she felt. The Gryffindor spirit that had propelled her to start on this time-turning quest seemed to have quieted down now and was replaced by fear as well as guilt.

_I wish someone were here with me, _she thought miserably. Tears slid down her face as the images of Harry and Ron dead swam before her mind's eye. _They're gone…_

_But they won't be if you succeed, _she reminded herself fiercely, gripping her wand tighter in her sweaty fist. _You can still save them. _

Part of her wished she had dragged Ginny along with her, and yet she knew that the youngest Weasley would not react well to having to hunt down Riddle. Ginny was brave and fiery in spirit, but some part of Hermione knew that Ginny did not possess quite the same bravery that her brother or boyfriend had. Ginny was strong but would crumble easily.

_Especially considering her history with Riddle, _Hermione thought grimly. At that moment, the doors on the other end of the Great Hall swung open, revealing an astonishingly handsome young man with dark hair and eyes. Oddly enough, he reminded her of a handsomer, more confident Harry, and then something clicked somewhere in her mind and she froze, her jaw dropping, just as the young man spoke. He raised an elegant eyebrow at Hermione and the caretaker.

"Ah, a newcomer, Grogan?" he asked smoothly, stepping into the Great Hall, his robes billowing behind him impressively. In a rasping voice, Grogan replied.

"Says she came 'ere on a portkey, Mr. Riddle," he sneered.

Hermione promptly fainted.

* * *

><p>When she next woke up, everything was swaying, and her left side ached like hell. She could hear voices around her, and flickering lights of the corridors.<p>

"She's awake! Thank goodness," said a voice-young; it couldn't be a professor-with immense relief. "Do not worry yourself, Miss MacMillian. We're taking you to the infirmary straightaway."

"Heh, lucky you're here, Mr. Riddle. Threw me back out last week chasing after that damned Potter and could never 'ave carried 'er all the way to the infirmary, course!"

_That's right. I fainted when I saw ….him. _Hermione began struggling wildly. _Get out, you can't let him see you…! _But she knew it was too late; Riddle had already gotten a good look at her face. She hadn't even been here a half hour and she'd already done something to potentially dramatically alter her own timeline. The last hope she could grasp onto was that she was so dirty and bloody that he wouldn't recognize her in the future.

"Let me go!" she ordered, pushing against Riddle's chest. He was carrying her bridal-style, and despite her struggling, he was quite strong.

"Shh, I'll happily put you down once we get you to Madam _," replied Tom in a patronizing but humor-tinged tone. "Please calm down until then; you seem quite injured."

Hermione was so tired that she could do little more than obey his orders, even though she knew it was dangerous. _Maybe if I pretend to faint again he'll notice me less, _she thought with hope. She made a show of her eyes rolling back into her head and relaxed in his arms, her head rolling until she was unfortunately resting her forehead against his chest.

"Wonder 'ow she got them wounds," asked the caretaker Grogan. "I dinnit see it outside but she looks like death itself."

"I'm sure we'll find out soon enough," replied Tom. "Poor thing; I didn't mean to give her such a fright!"

Grogan let out a wheezing laugh.

"You did always have that 'ffect on the ladies, Mr. Riddle," he chuckled. Hermione fought the urge to slap both of them and remained limp in the future Dark Lord's arms.

_I need to get to Dumbledore, _she thought to herself. She caught what might have been a whiff of aftershave when Riddle shifted his hold on her so that her face was now settled against the crook of his neck, the collar of his shirt tickling her nose. _Do not sneeze. Do NOT sneeze, _she warned herself.

Finally they reached the infirmary, where Madam Plum was bustling about, making beds nd muttering something to herself.

"No doubt the blithering idiots will hurt themselves on the train with that damned Exploding Sn-Mr. Riddle! Grogan!" she cried, suddenly sounding embarrassed. She must have caught sight of who Tom was carrying, for Hermione heard her draw in a breath sharply. "I don't recognize her. What in Merlin's name _happened_ to her? She looks like an apocalypse survivor," she breathed, rushing forward to aid Tom in placing Hermione on a nearby bed. Hermione almost laughed at her words. Almost.

"Couldn't tell ya. When I found 'er, she was mumbling something 'bout a portkey, see," said Grogan, suddenly sounding quite anxious. "Thank Merlin for Mr. Riddle here, 'elping me carry the young lady up 'ere."

"Oh, it was no trouble, Grogan," replied Tom sweetly. To her horror, she felt a cool, dry hand over her own hand, which now rested on her stomach. "I just do hope it wasn't my fault…"

_Oh cut it out with that bloody 'all my fault' business, _Hermione thought with rage. Unfortunately, had she not known who Tom Riddle would grow up to become, she would have fallen for the lie just as his professors obviously had. His tone was sweet and gentle, just enough worry to sound genuine without sounding simpering. Had she not known better, she would probably consider his voice that of an angel.

She chose that moment to wake up again, if nothing for the excuse to shake off Voldemort's hand.

"My dear! How are you feeling?" cried Madam Plum. Hermione attempted to look confused and disoriented as she looked between the three people surrounding her bed.

"…Dumbledore. H-he's expecting me," she managed to say in a trembling voice.

* * *

><p>"And you say you cannot tell me your mission," a surprisingly ginger-haired Dumbledore confirmed slowly. Having bathed and been given fresh robes, Hermione felt at least somewhat more human as she sat across the desk in Dumbledore's old office. It was smaller and less grand, no doubt, but it was still filled to bursting with fluttering contraptions, Fawkes perching on a golden stand, and of course, the Pensieve hidden away in a cabinet.<p>

Dumbledore was studying her shrewdly, though his eyes gave away that he found this somewhat amusing, for they twinkled behind his spectacles quite tellingly.

"I am sorry, Professor, but I just cannot tell you. All I can tell you is that…" she paused as she looked down at her hands, which were still trembling from shock. She looked up again at Dumbledore. "…All I say is that what I'm doing will save thousands of lives. No, more…it may save the world."

"Quite a task to take on for a seventeen year old girl," commented Dumbledore lightly. Hermione grimaced.

"That's why I'm asking for your help. I had hoped to avoid involving others in the plan, so as to preserve the timeline as much as possible…but if there's anyone whose help I'd want, it would be yours, Professor. I can assure you you'll find out in due time what my mission is. In the future, I'm at the top of my class at Hogwarts. Even you have told me I was one of the cleverest witches you've ever met. Believe me, I can do this."

Softly, she added, "I don't have any choices left now."

_Harry. Ron. _Her eyes burned with tears and she fiercely blinked them away as Dumbledore regarded her, his eyes seeming to look directly through her. She wondered if he was using Legilimancy on her, but somehow, she knew he wouldn't do that. Dumbledore understood the seriousness of altering the fabric of time…looking into her mind could indirectly cause horrible things to occur.

She needed a plan. Now that she knew it was September first, nineteen forty four, her original plan had to be put on hold for several years.

"What I need is time here at Hogwarts. I haven't anywhere else to go."

"I see. So then, you are here because you have been homeschooled all of your life, and your parents wished to prepare you for these dark times more adequately by giving you a year of official education," confirmed Dumbledore. Hermione nodded, catching on quickly.

"Yes. I come from Surrey. My name is Hermione MacMillan and I am an only child," she added smoothly. Dumbledore grinned and clapped his hands together.

"Then the only things left to do are to alert Headmaster Dippet to your arrival, Sort you, and then place you into your classes, am I correct?"

Hermione followed Dumbledore out of his office, feeling a sense of loss as the door shut behind them. "The other students will be arriving this evening, Miss MacMillan. That should give you enough time to get your affairs in order, I believe," Dumbledore said over his shoulder as they wove through the corridors. "You've already met our Head Boy, Mr. Tom Riddle. If what you say about your academics is true, Miss MacMillan, I daresay you'll meet your match in him…"

"Oh, I'm sure he's far cleverer than I am," Hermione said modestly, though inwardly she seethed at the mention of Riddle. Once again, images from the final battle flashed through her mind and she suddenly felt quite old and tired. Beaten and broken. Lost. Subconsciously she hugged her arms around her body, not realizing that Dumbledore picked up on the gesture.

_Stop thinking about it for now. You can't be so weak, _she reminded herself. It was a great effort to tear her mind back to the present-or was it the past?

Alone with Dippet and Dumbledore, she was sorted into Gryffindor-of course. A four-poster bed in the seventh year girls' room was arranged as well as a trunk, and Dumbledore even gave her a changepurse of Galleons for purchasing school supplies as well as her own personal necessities. _Thank god, _she thought grimly, looking down at the baggy black robes. Hermione wasn't prone to vanity, but she certainly had no desire to wear the same set of clothes each day. With only a few hours left before the rest of Hogwarts arrived, Hermione decided to keep herself busy and venture into Hogsmeade for some books and clothes. It was a somewhat balmy day outside, though the sky remained an unfortunate gunmetal grey. Hermione set off out of the Great Hall, careful to not let her gaze linger too long on any of the scenery. For her, it had only been a few hours since she had escaped the smoking ruins of the castle, and she had little interest in dwelling on it now, when it was all so painfully fresh and stinging.

_Keep yourself busy, _she reminded herself.

She had never been one to relinquish her stronghold on her spirit. She had once been the Gryffindor Princess, hadn't she? Yet now as her feet sank into the wet ground, so her spirit sank lower. Every step came a fresh memory of the hopeless battle that she had escaped, and guilt and grief wracked her until suddenly she stood in a small copse of trees, clutching at the bark of one and gasping for breath.

_Don't think about it. Do not think about it. _

She dry-heaved for a few moments before rising again and wiping the cold perspiration from her face with clammy hands. In the muggy daylight, her bushy curls clung to the nape of her neck and she pushed her hair away. In the distance, the sun set the clouds aglow from behind, giving the daylight a muted and restrained quality. She thought of Harry and Ron yet again, and instead of letting her mind revisit their lifeless bodies, she instead dwelled on what they-especially Harry-would have done in this situation.

"Right then. I'm just going to keep moving forward," she said for her own benefit, brushing her hands off. Harry would have never allowed himself to become weepy about such things. He had so readily marched to his own death…

Tears slipped down her cheeks and she resolved, standing there in the wet copse, that these would be her last tears until she completed what she had set out to do.

_I have set out to destroy the Horcruxes ahead of time, without changing the timeline or catching the attention of Lord Voldemort. And that is precisely what I shall do. _

Squaring her shoulders, Hermione resumed her journey to Hogsmeade, though she couldn't help but notice that the scent of Tom Riddle's aftershave still, even after she had bathed, lingered tantalizingly against her skin, like the faint memory of a song.

* * *

><p>Hogsmeade was different from how she had known it, of course. The Shrieking Shack had not even been built-nor had the Whomping Willow been planted yet, obviously-and though the Hog's Head and Three Broomsticks were there, little else was recognizable. She was relieved to see that Honeydukes existed already, but what was most exciting was than an ancient-looking bookstore sat where Zonko's would one day be. Called Tingling Spines (she sighed in exasperation at the 'punny' title), it looked like a gust of wind strong enough might just knock it down. She stepped inside, whipping out her list of required reading. Dumbledore had advised she'd find everything she needed here in Hogsmeade, and he had not been lying.<p>

"The Hogwarts lot get their books usually at Diagon Alley, of course," wheezed an elderly man as he trembled under the combined weight of her textbooks, tipping them into her arms. "But once in a while we get the odd student dropping by." In the back of the store, a girl of about eighteen with straight black hair seemed to perk up. The eldery wizard rolled his eyes in her direction and lowered his voice. "You can bet my Minerva here's always happy when that Riddle fellow drops by. You'd expect she'd have gotten over her silly crush by now, but no…"

Hermione stood rooted to the spot as she stared at the girl, suddenly recognizing the sharp features. "…Of course, she's starting her job at the Ministry soon, thank Merlin," the elderly wizard was grumbling.

"Th-thank you," Hermione stammered abruptly before shoving Galleons at the wizard and practically knocking over the bookstore in her haste to get out. Once outside, she found herself gasping for breath, and she had to set her books down on the ground. _Professor McGonagall had a crush on Voldemort?_

This was just getting too weird. Hermione's keen brain normally absorbed even the most shocking facts, but to see a young McGonagall was too strange.

"Need some help?"

Hermione let out a little shriek and bolted upright to find herself face-to-face with the devil himself. Tom Riddle was wearing slacks and a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Hermione recognized it as part of the outdated uniform (without the black robes of course), though on him it hardly looked like a uniform and more like haute couture. Tom's head was cocked to the side, his eyebrows raised, and for the first time, Hermione looked directly into his startling eyes. For a moment she was overtaken by his angelic features, but her friends' deaths so fresh in her mind, her hostility-another inappropriate reaction, considering her mission-bubbled over.

"_No, _thank you," she spat, immediately snatching up her books and storming away, leaving a very confused looking Lord Voldemort.


	3. 3: Wrapped Up in Books

Bad Romance

Author's Note: Thanks for all of your lovely reviews! When I have the chance, I will reply to each one of them individually. In the mean time, keep them coming! I'm not a review whore by any means, but it's certainly encouraging, and it's helpful to have feedback on how I'm doing. As I said before, this story is mostly experimental.

Chapter Three: Wrapped Up in Books

Venomous hatred for Tom Riddle coursing through her veins, Hermione stormed off to do the rest of her shopping, the encounter with a young McGonagall mostly forgotten for the moment. Her hands shook with rage as she held up the bit of parchment that listed the things she needed to buy. Books out of the way, Hermione finally settled on a robes shop for her school robes as well as dress robes._ I suppose there must be some sort of ball this year,_ she thought as a middle-aged crabby witch took her measurements, with measuring tapes charmed to measure on their own hovering around her. Remembering the look on Harry and Ron's faces when she'd entered the Great Hall (as well as the many other jaws that had dropped at the sight of her) still filled her with the warmth of being admired.

Immediately after this memory, however, returned the memories of what she had only escaped hours before. Hermione felt trapped in her own mind and she wished dearly to run from her memories as she had run from the battle. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she felt unsettled by her appearance. Somehow, she no longer looked as she always had. There was a flintiness in her eyes that she hardly recognized and lent her an air that was usually not found in seventeen year olds.

_I look like I've seen too much_, she realized with a grimace. Her mind wandered to Riddle and once again she had the urge to smack herself. Treating him so coldly had been unwise, especially since he had been 'kind' to her. Her behavior did not make sense given the situation, and she was annoyed that she had let her feelings get the best of her. _It's like without Ron or Harry I'm making up for their complete lack of tact with my own idiocy. _

"Dress robes…let's see…" Madam Kilfeather frowned thoughtfully and bustled off into a back room, leaving Hermione standing alone on the small pedestal in the empty shop. The dust seemed to buzz even with magic. Hermione idly wondered what Madam Kilfeather might produce, and was a little more than worried when the chubby witch returned from the backroom, her arms laden with brightly colored gowns and robes. "You're a winter complexion, deary, so you'll look best in jewel tones," Madam Kilfeather explained, holding up different robes to Hermione's face and snapping irritably at her when Hermione tried to give her opinion on each robe. Finally, Hermione gave up and allowed Madam Kilfeather to work in peace. "Yes, I think it's down to these two," she said, tossing the other robes behind her and holding up two different robes. One was slippery and silvery, and reminded Hermione faintly of the Invisibility Cloak. The other was a bottle green and reminded Hermione of Harry's eyes. Her chest tightened as she reached for the silvery gown.

"Thank you, it looks beautiful," she murmured, nearly dropping the material. It was lightweight and cool to the touch, and slid through Hermione's fingers like water.

"Try it on now, love. You wouldn't want to have to troop back here bfore the ball when all of the other Hogwarts children will be lining up," ordered Madam Kilfeather, shoving Hermione into a little dressing room behind a mirror. Hermione had learned this was not a witch to be argued with, and took off her clothes in resignation. She caught a glimpse of her nude body in the mirror and nearly shuddered; she had not dwelled on her appearance since she had started hunting the Horcruxes nine months ago, and it certainly showed. She'd grown pale and the new scars she'd acquired stood out, spidery and pink. Trying to not think too much about it, she slipped into the silvery robes. Madam Kilfeather began rapping on the door, ordering that Hermione show her, and without checking her reflection first, Hermione pushed open the door to the fitting room, self consciously pushing aside her hair. That's another thing…how did I not realize how much worse my hair has gotten? She wondered, feeling the frazzled and split ends tickling her cheek. Madam Kilfeather gasped. "Look!" she whispered delightedly, and gripped Hermione's shoulders, spinning her round to look at herself in the mirror.

Hermione's jaw dropped. The silvery material set her skin aglow, making her dark eyes stand out more against her pale skin. The robes had a square neckline that tastefully showed off her shoulders and clavicle, and the sleeves ended at her elbows, with extra fabric hanging from them down past her hips. The robes swished elegantly with every movement.

"Perfect," Hermione admitted, admiring the way the fabric fluttered when she breathed.

"Now you just need a good looking young man to escort you," grinned Madam Kilfeather. After picking out a few more things, Hermione paid for her new robes and left Kilfeather Klothier, feeling surprisingly lighter than she would have expected. The day was beginning to brighten as afternoon settled on Hogsmeade, though the sky never quite became blue. With sprightly steps, Hermione finished her shopping and returned to Hogwarts with everything she needed…and well, perhaps a little bit more. She thought guiltily of the extra things she'd purchased: a peculiar but pretty-smelling perfume that was light and floral, some hair products to tame the monster that had grown to uncontrollable proportions on her head, and even a bit of light makeup.

Retail therapy, eh? she thought wryly, taking a peek inside one of the packages. The silvery robes caught the bit of light and shone and Hermione beamed. She'd never be as obsessive about her appearance as some girls, such as Lavender Brown or even Ginny, but she still enjoyed a bit of pampering, and seeing her reflection in the fitting room at Madam Kilfeather's robe shop had proven that she actually needed it. She looked like the victim of a terrible war (which she was, in fact) but that did not fit in with her story of being homeschooled in Surrey. With her purchases, some real sleep, and a few square meals, she'd look back to her normal self (well, mostly, at any rate) in due course.

Stopping to search the grass on her way back to her dormitory proved to be fruitful: she found the Time-Turner. With a sigh of relief she slipped it around her neck, thanking Merlin silently that it was small enough to be worn beneath her robes.

With a sigh, she bolstered her confidence and returned to the castle, mentally steeling herself for any contact she might have with the mysterious Tom Riddle.

* * *

><p>After changing into her fresh uniform and applying some of her new perfume, Hermione decided to go (where else?) to the library. She needed time to think, and she needed to begin drafting her plan. Traveling back too far was a setback but there was not much she could do about it now.<p>

_But I hardly know where to begin with destroying these Horcruxes. I don't even know _when _he makes them, which is the key to my plan. _The best way was to make sure he had created the Horcrux, leave it alone for a few years to lull Voldemort into a false sense of security, and _then _strike. But how could she possibly determine when he made each Horcrux? Dumbledore himself had said that there was no knowledge of where Riddle had gone after he had left Borgin and Burke's.

She felt like a ghost had walked through her as she realized the only solution: she'd have to become close to Voldemort in some way. She'd have to worm her way into his inner circle, become the one he trusted the most, and then rely on him to give clues as to his activities.

It was mad, completely mad. If Ron had been there, Hermione thought with a pained grin, he would had promptly informed her that she was mental. Harry, however, would probably have taken to the plan, as Harry's ideas were usually absurdly reckless.

_No, I shouldn't act yet, _she decided as she entered the library. _I'll give myself a few days to think on it, do the proper research…. _Feeling much more relaxed, Hermione drew in a deep breath as she eyed the stacks and shelves spilling over with magical parchment. _Welcome home, _she thought to herself. She could not contain her broad grin as she walked down each aisle, taking in the smell of old parchment and ancient ink coated in dust of years gone by. She _loved_ the library. The air seemed to hum with all of this information, all of the concatenated ideology of thousands of years of wizards and witches. Stopping at a small section dedicated to Time-Traveling, her fingers lingered over the spine of one book in particular. _Time-Turning for the Worldly Wizard, by Tempestus Thiunessen… _

"More books, Miss Macmillan?"

Hermione nearly knocked over the bookshelf in her surprise. Tom Riddle was carrying a stack of books, regarding her with curiosity and a little bit of amusement. In the fading light of the library, Hermione could fully appreciate his physical beauty, and for a moment she marveled at how such an angelic, extraordinarily handsome man could grow to be and look so entirely evil. His features were classic: straight aristocratic nose, high cheekbones, smooth lips, and mysteriously dark eyes fringed with dark lashes. His eyebrows were arched and elegant, and though his dark wavy hair was mostly neatly pushed away from his face, a few dark tendrils had strayed, falling across his forehead. "Is there something on my face?" he spoke again, acting perfectly self-conscious and shifting the weight of his books to his other arm so that he could bring a hand to his face, looking sheepish and embarrassed.

"N-no," Hermione said, clearing her throat awkwardly. "You just surprised me, that's all. I thought I was alone."

"Fellow book lover?" Tom quirked an eyebrow at her and smiled knowingly, his eyes narrowing into shrewd crescents. "Tingling Spines is good for emergencies….but not a lot of variety, is there?"

"Not enough at all," Hermione replied immediately, nearly forgetting who exactly she was talking to. She turned to him, remembering that she was not supposed to know about the library, technically. "Dumbledore told me about this library, but I didn't believe him at first," she explained hastily. "I was homeschooled, you see, so I never got to see a school library. But there are all sorts of books here!"

"Even books on Time Travel," Tom replied gamely, nodding to the shelf where her hand had rested moments before. Hermione's blood began to pound in her ears. Tom Riddle had not gotten to become one of the most feared Dark wizards in history by being an idiot. It would only take him so many clues to figure out her entire scheme. Hermione let out a nervous giggle.

"Always has been an interest of mine. But my parents wouldn't let me research it."

"It surprises me that such protective parents didn't see you to King's Cross," Tom commented lightly, with a slight shrug. Hermione's cheeks flushed.

"Away on a business trip," she stammered, though something told her that Riddle was hardly fooled and still saw her as suspicious. Still, his expression gave away nothing but a general, innocent interest.

"Would you do me the honor of allowing me to show you around the castle?" he asked suddenly. He stepped forward slightly and set his books down on a table next to Hermione. Briefly their robes brushed and Hermione caught another whiff of aftershave. It was subtle, unlike most teenage boys who seemed to want to advertise as much as possible that they had begun to shave on a regular basis. _He seems so much more mature…more sophisticated, _Hermione thought as Tom straightened again. It was easy to see why he'd have a large following. "After all, we still have quite a bit of time before the other students arrive."

"I think I'd better relax for now, but thank you," she said as politely as she could, stepping back and accidentally backing into a shelf in the process. A few books toppled onto the floor. "I had a rough trip here, you see. But thank you." Her voice sounded stiltedly cordial, especially after the vehemence she'd shown in Hogsmeade towards him. Tom looked affronted.

"Miss Macmillan, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you dislike me. I hope I didn't offend you in some way…?"

She almost believed his act. She really did. He stepped closer again, his features arranged into the epitome of a concerned expression. He placed a hand on her shoulder and she had to refrain from jumping away as if shocked. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

"No! Of course not!" she squeaked, wishing she could back away again, but there was nowhere to go. He had cornered her already. "I apologize about earlier today. I was just in a bad mood about something. That's all."

Tom's mouth twisted into a broad cheeky grin, and without any warning, he reached up and tugged on a lock of her hair before releasing it and stepping back again.

"Some other time, then. I'm sure we'll be seeing quite a bit of each other from now on. Your reputation precedes you…your scores were quite impressive, Miss Macmillan. Almost as impressive as mine." He picked up his books again and then was gone in a swish of black robes.

Her cheeks flushed with the pleasure of being complimented. Inwardly, she banged her head against a wall repeatedly, in an attempt to beat herself into not being charmed by this insidious man. Outwardly she let out an exhausted sigh.

For all of her attempts to avoid contact with Voldemort, she seemed to be unable to escape him.

* * *

><p>Hands shaking, Hermione decided to make sure that no one-least of all Riddle-caught her near the Time-Traveling section <em>ever<em> again. With that in mind, she mopped her slightly clammy brow with her sleeve and left the library, feeling far too scatter-brained and restless, knowing Riddle might reappear (or might have never left the library) at any moment.

_Summon that Gryffindor spirit and remember your mission, _she reminded herself as she returned to the Gryffindor tower. "Godric,' she muttered to the Fat Lady. The tower seemed strange when not filled with boisterous Gryffindors having their parties. Even if she had denounced their rowdiness, now she missed it sorely. When she climbed up the stairs to her own four-poster bed, she lay down and closed her eyes, drawing the curtains and setting an alarm-clock charm for herself. She still felt exhausted, as she had not slept in days-or had it been weeks at this point? She was no longer sure-and was more than grateful for the warmth of the comforter around her and the softness of the pillow.

Just as she was about to drift off to sleep, for no apparent reason at all the memory of Riddle's hand on her shoulder flashed through her mind, banishing away the images from the final battle. She shuddered in horror-Voldemort _had touched her-_but she could not quite explain to herself why her cheeks suddenly were quite warm. She also could not explain the sense of loss she felt now that the scent of his aftershave had finally worn off of her skin.

_It's simple, really, _she decided with a yawn. _Riddle could never have started up his following of Death Eaters without a little charisma. So many predators in the wild use beauty to lure their prey..._

But, she remembered faintly just before finally falling asleep, Riddle was no longer the predator. He had become her prey.


	4. 4: Paranoia

Bad Romance

Author's Note: Annddd (drumroll) sexual tension time! Yay! Hope you guys like this chapter…and thanks for all the reviews you all have given me. Keep them coming of course, and remember I'm updating this fic once a day (hopefully). Oh yeah, and any names are either taken from the potter universe, or else, if they're made up, have something to do with the reason for that character's existence (i.e., if they're a professor, then their name will probably have some clue as to the subject they teach). I'm not too keen on OC's.

Also…I did a bit of research to help me with the course material for some of Hermione's classes, but please, feel free to correct me on details. Merlin knows I probably _butchered _Arithmancy…

Chapter Four: Paranoia

After a much-needed nap, Hermione felt more like herself than she had in years. She sat up, stretching and basking in that refreshed feeling that had become so foreign to her after her hunt for Horcruxes with Harry. _Yes, hunting them will be a lot more enjoyable from a four-poster bed and three meals a day. _She grinned at her own reflection. Already she was looking better. Her cheeks looked more rosy again, and with the aid of some of the hair potions that she had purchased, her hair was (slightly) less terrifyingly bushy. The whites of her eyes looked bright white, instead of the dull rusty red color they had acquired.

She mentally scolded herself for acting like such a headcase around Tom Riddle as she stared out the window at the twilit sky. Soon the students would be arriving…and thus the year would begin. _Well, now that I've got my wits about me, it shouldn't be a problem to stay out of his way until I figure out a plan, _she decided. Ignoring the feeling that her heart was breaking as she recalled ridign the train with Harry and Ron, Hermione decided to seek out some of the professors early to introduce herself. The halls were empty but there were signs that House Elves had been there as well; everything seemed to gleam with a freshly polished light. Hermione felt guilty for admiring the elves' handiwork and also resolved to try and do something to help them over the course of this year.

Deep down, she knew that finalizing a plan for how to go about hunting Horcruxes was more important than anything else. But she'd always had Harry and Ron-but especially Harry, in this case-to come up with daring plans, or else to give her ideas. On her own she felt tentative and insecure, a feeling she hardly recognized. Even when things had been at their worst, Hermione had always been confident that she and Harry would be able to come up with something, even relying on pure nerve. And she missed Ron's jokes that had always kept the mood lighthearted. Without Ron's silliness, Hermione knew she was quite likely to settle into a permanently black mood.

_We were the perfect team, _she thought wistfully. Harry's daring and gallant tactics, Ron's perpetual good humor, and Hermione's brilliance with logic and keen grasp of knowledge… _We were unstoppable. _But now she would have to become her own Harry and Ron-she'd have to become more confident, and she'd have to keep her mood buoyant and cheerful. It would be the only way to defeat Voldemort.

"Miss Macmillan?" A tall woman whose age was indeterminable to Hermione sauntered round the corner and began approaching her. She had dark hair that fell to her ample hips and dark eyes that flashed with something; it hit Hermione that this woman had veela blood in her. "I heard Mr. Riddle saved you," she commented, her voice smooth and sensual. Remembering Fleur, Hermione shrugged. _I wonder if Veelas work on Riddle. _She had to fight down a giggle at that image and smiled.

"Yes, I'm quite lucky he was there to carry me," she said easily. The professor regarded her through thick eyelashes and Hermione wondered what she was thinking.

"Well, at any rate-I thought I might introduce myself now, though I'm sure you'll hear more about me soon enough. Veronique Vanlandingham." Professor Vanlandingham made no move to shake Hermione's hand or bow, and instead fingered a long, delicate wand. "I teach ancient runes; you are in my class I have heard."

There was the faintest trace of an accent and Hermione nearly rolled her eyes at Vanlandingham. _Honestly. _The witch was the classic 'hot' professor; Hermione would bet her wand that she had quite the following. Part veela? Check. Lilting, untraceable accent? Check. Long dark hair, broad hips, and long soap opera-esque name? Check, check, and check.

After she and the ancient runes professor parted ways, Hermione realized it was nearly time for the feast; indeed she was beginning to hear shouts as students filed into the Great Hall. Hermione greeted a cheerful Dumbledore and followed him and a few other professors into the now packed hall. Hermione abruptly recognized a much younger Horace Slughorn, and though his face was unlined and his hair was gingery blonde, he hardly looked any different from how she had known him. He was laughing jovially at something, bejeweled hand resting on his rotund stomach, and Hermione's heart gave a funny jump when she realized he had been laughing at something Riddle had said. After that, Riddle turned to seat himself at the Slytherin table, which was already filling up with his eager admirers. Even girls from the other Houses were gazing longingly as a girl who faintly reminded Hermione of Pansy Parkinson attached herself like a barnacle to Tom's arm. Tsking and rolling her eyes, Hermione sat down at the Gryffindor table, garnering curious stares from everyone around her as she set her books down. She saw a black-haired boy and some friends peering at her surreptitiously. _He's probably a Potter, _Hermione thought, trying to not return the stares. There were a few redheads of different ages scattered about the seats and she knew they were Weasleys.

The rest of the feast passed without incident. Hermione noted that all of the girls around her were whispering about Tom and she rolled her eyes. _Honestly. They're worse than the Krum fangirls. _Though when she remembered that technically, she had been one too-they _had_ dated, after all-her cheeks flushed. _The idea of ending up with Voldemort is disgusting…even more so considering he certainly didn't keep those good looks. _

_Good looks? _a sly voice asked in her head. Hermione scowled and angry stuffed a forkful of mashed sweet potato in her mouth. _Yes. FINE. I admit it; he is a beautiful-no, _perfect-_man. That's how he lures in all of his followers. _Satisfied that it was _okay _to find Tom Riddle handsome, she stood up, not noticing that a certain Weasley had turned to a certain Potter and muttered, "_Mental, _that one is."

Tom Riddle's fingers curled around his yew wand as he stared at where Hermione MacMillan had left the Great Hall. Hyacinth Parkinson was clawing at his sleeve in a most intolerable fashion, and Tom idly considered hexing her. He had, after all, already mastered nonverbal spells. But it was quite unnecessary, and Tom merely cast Hyacinth a winning smile before returning to his analysis of the new girl. She had arrived looking like she'd been beaten and tortured, and the way she reacted to him suggested that she _feared _him, deep down. _As she should, _Tom thought with a smirk.

But that suggested that she _knew_ something about him and his intentions. Not that his intentions were not noble, but he knew most witches and wizards-especially those of Gryffindor House-would consider his 'experiments' unconventional in the worst way.

_Do not worry, little Hermione…_he thought to himself, watching her hair and skirt be the last things to disappear round the enormous wooden and wrought iron doors. _You have nothing to fear as long as you're not a MudBlood…_

* * *

><p>The first day of classes were upon them. Hermione ate her breakfast alone, but she was quite happy with this. She was used to having months to look through the next year's books and acquaint h herself with the material, so the night before had certainly not been enough time. Being away from her schooling for a year, she had forgotten how much she genuinely enjoyed it. She was already looking forward to her first set of homework, something she knew Ron and Harry would have been teasing her for. She smiled to herself, but did not let herself think of it for too long.<p>

Her first class was Ancient Runes. _With Professor Vanlandingham. Just great, _she thought with a roll of her eyes before entering the classroom. Somehow she could tell she and Professor Vanlandingham would not get along as easily. _At least she won't be Trelawny. You can't teach Ancient Runes with that kind of attitude, _she thought cheerfully as she took the front seat as usual. Around her, she could sense the other students' eyes on her, watching her carefully. She hadn't gone out of her way to introduce herself, and she was sure that rumors about her were flying. The classroom was still a bit dark, but then suddenly the candles burst aflame simultaneously. _Here we go. I guess I spoke too soon about her being unlike Trelawny._

Professor Vanlandingham sauntered in, wearing a blood red velvet floor length skirt, high heeled black lace-up boots, and a chiffon-trimmed black corset top. The effect was that of a clumsier, more intentionally sexified Bellatrix. She almost snorted loudly when she heard other girls gushing about Vanlandingham's incredible fashion sense.

"Something amusing?" That sensual deep voice dragged Hermione from her pondering about what it was like for Bellatrix to go shopping (did her clothes all have to be black? Were they rated on a scale of how villainous they looked, and then chosen from there? How many corsets did the woman own?). Tom Riddle slid into the seat next to her, his hair gleaming in the candlelight, his tie, shirt, and robes immaculate and pressed to perfection. His eyes slid imperceptibly to Vanlandingham and then back to her. He shot her a grin that made it feel like they were sharing a private joke. "Oh, she's only warming up. It'll become much more of a spectacle as the year passes."

Before she could stop herself, Hermione felt herself let out a chuckle. The corners of Tom's mouth twitched as he went about setting up his books, as though he were working very hard to hold back laughter. _He is Voldemort. Voldemort is __**not funny at all.**_ And yet she still found herself grinning at his words minutes later, when Vanlandingham had to remove her heavy rings because they were interfering with her drawing of a set of runes.

When Hermione heard whispering behind her, she looked back and saw a table of girls huddled together, whispering…Vanlandingham continued on, oblivious to the whispering. The girls stopped when Hermione raised her eyebrows at them, and looked guilty and defensive as they resumed pretending to take notes.

Vanlandingham's velvet dress nearly caught on fire at one point and Hermione nearly broke her ribcage trying to not laugh. Tom's cheeks had become quite pink with the same effort, and Hermione had to mentally slapping herself for noticing how becoming the color was. _You're acting like a fangirl. He's Voldemort, dammit! _Still, Ginny had confided in her a number of times that when she had been writing in the diary, there were many times that Ginny felt she had found her true Prince Charming in the diary, and would forget about Harry completely. _'He's…clever. He can very easily figure out what will lure you in…and then he uses it. He seemed so understanding, so kind, so witty. He seemed so intrigued by what I had to say. He _understood _me in ways no one else ever had…no one understands how Voldemort rose to power, but _I _do.'_

_Well, _Hermione thought a bit smugly, _Ginny was an insecure ten year old girl with older brothers that enjoyed teasing her and an enormous crush on an entirely unavailable boy. I won't fall for the same trick; there's nothing wrong with enjoying a joke with someone. _

"Oh, and for homework: two feet of parchment on why the unknown symbol represents the number seven," Vanlandingham announced finally, signaling the end of class. Hermione could hardly fight back her scoff and she couldn't help but notice that Tom seemed to share her sentiments. Such a trivial question to ask of seventh years...After class, Tom seemed to be swallowed by his many fangirls and 'friends' and Hermione managed to walk to her next class, Arithmancy, alone with her wonderings about the young Voldemort.

_He couldn't be trying to lure me in. There's no reason for him to, _she reasoned to herself. _He's probably just treating me with the same act that he uses on everyone else, and I'm so egotistical I'm assuming it means I'm special. _

Arithmancy was not much better. Taught by a wheezing, ineffectual old wizard called Isopseph, Hermione realized this wouldn't be quite as invigorating as the Arithmancy classes she had taken in the future. She settled into the front seat again, feeling both glad and disappointed when it seemed Tom was not in this class. It meant she'd concentrate better, for certain, but it also meant she couldn't enjoy his little remarks or the humor-filled glances he sent her.

…_.And, time for another mental slap, _she thought, letting her forehead fall against her textbook. _I am not sad that I cannot joke with Voldemort during class. Really, what in Merlin's name has gotten into me? _

She assumed she was probably just lonely, though when another witch she had never seen before settled into her seat, it was hard to keep up that line of thinking. She felt no better now that she was sitting with someone, and she had to mentally slap herself some more when Riddle finally _did _come into the classroom and she was tempted to tell the witch that had sat down next to her to move. She noticed how Tom's dark gaze fell on her and immediately her face grew hot. He sat down next to a wizard that might have had the Avery family name; she wasn't quite sure. Their gazes connected across the room and Hermione pointedly looked ahead at where Professor Isopseph stood, fumbling with pages of notes that floated in the air.

"Welcome back," he wheezed. "I hope your summers went well," he continued, "but now they are over and now we are back to school. I expect you all to behave accordingly." His rather menacing words had no effect considering he stammered repeatedly and wouldn't look any of them in the eye, instead fidgeting with the brim of his purple pointed hat. "As you all know, Arithmancy is the study of divination through numbers. This year, we will look mostly at the Agrippan method. Can anyone tell me why?"

Isopseph spared a glance up at the class, and immediately, Hermione's hand shot in the air. She opened her mouth, expecting to have been the only one who had volunteered an answer, but a silvery smooth voice stopped her in her tracks.

"Well, sir, doesn't the Chaldean method disregard the number nine?" It was all so perfect. The hesitancy, the uncertainty. He didn't sound like a know-it-all the way Hermione knew she always had. He sounded merely _brilliant,_ but mostly unaware of his brilliance. Hermione couldn't resist shooting him an icy stare that seemed to confuse Tom.

"Very good, Mr. Riddle, though I expected no less! Ten points to Slytherin-"

"But the Agrippan method is so much less precise _because_ it includes the number nine," Hermione interrupted, unable to let this matter slide. Everything inside her was telling her to just _let it go, _but she couldn't resist. Arithmancy was her favorite subject and she had despaired over not getting to study it in her seventh year. Isopseph seemed mildly surprised by her outburst.

"True, an excellent point, Miss…"

"Macmillan," Hermione finished for him, feigning modesty as he awarded Gryffindor fifteen points instead of ten. Tom looked surprised and maybe, just _maybe, _a little annoyed.

_Hate when people steal the spotlight from you, don't you? _Hermione thought cheerfully as Isopseph went on to explain the matter to the rest of the class. A sly voice, the same one that had pointed out her attraction to Riddle, mentioned that she wasn't too different in this respect, and also, she wasn't exactly 'staying under Riddle's radar' by stealing the spotlight from him in class.

"Well, I'd rather know _more_ at the risk of less precision," Tom finally interrupted. Isopseph blinked in surprise. He clearly wasn't used to having his class interrupted. Tom was looking at Isopseph.

"And that is beneficial _how? _The Chaldean method is more precise and is based on so much less guesswork. There's no point in bothering with arinthmantic calculations if you could do just as well picking things out of a hat!" Hermione retorted.

"Another excellent point-" Isopseph went to award them both more points, but now Tom and Hermione were facing each other as they argued. The witch next to Hermione seemed to be sorely regretting her seating choice, and was leaning so far back in her chair to get out of Hermione's warpath that the chair might have toppled over at any second.

"You miss too much with the Chaldean method. It's a worthless branch of Arithmancy," Tom said coolly. Something flashed in his eyes and even though Hermione secretly agreed with him, she couldn't help but take this stand. _Why _she wanted to take a stand eluded her but she assumed it had something to do with hating to not be the smartest one in the room. "Besides, Arithmancy is just divination anyway, isn't it? It's bound to be quite imprecise."

"The _whole point _of Arithmancy is that it _is _a more precise art than divination, and far more useful," Hermione ground out, finding herself on the edge of her seat. As much as she hated to admit it, she was also enjoying this debate. She'd never _debated_ any points in any of her classes before. She had always been the best…well, except for in sixth year potions, but that was really just Snape unwittingly giving Harry loads of help. No, she had never been bested before. She was finding herself more invigorated in a class than she ever had been.

"You disdain divination, but I find it to be quite a useful field. Even the tiniest warning can be useful, even the slightest chance of something harmful occurring…and then you can avoid it, and you're the wiser for it," Tom said levelly. Hermione smirked.

"Suspicious, are we? True, perhaps you can duck out of one situation…and perhaps right into a more troublesome one! You can't escape death," she retorted, and then quite suddenly recalled who she was talking to: the man who had gone to greater lengths than any before him to escape death itself. There might have been a flash of red in Voldemort's eyes, or she might have been being paranoid.

"That's quite enough!" Professor Isopseph called out, startling everyone in the class. He seemed to regret having raised his voice, for immediately he began fidgeting with his hat again. "You both make very interesting points, but we're studying the Agrippan method and that is that." His voice was quavering again, and Hermione involuntarily let her eyes slide back to Tom for the briefest of moments.

He was looking at her like he was seeing her for the first time, an animalistic curiosity present in those dark depths. It chilled Hermione's blood and then instantly after that she felt warm from the attention. Isopseph was still speaking, but Hermione forgot she was in class for the moment as the rest of the world seemed to become blurred and distant. Her heart pounding and leaving her breathless, Hermione broke the eye contact first and stared very hard at her desk, deaf to Professor Isopseph's words.

After Arithmancy, Hermione ducked out of the classroom, wishing she could simply Vanish and avoid Tom. There was a funny, tremulous feeling in the very pit of her stomach, and her body was coursing with adrenaline.

She had _never_ had a class like _that_ before. Even though the debate had been stupid (_because of course_, she thought to herself,_ the Agrippan method _was_ the better method. Any idiot could see that._) the debate had been intellectually stimulating. Tom had not been ready to back down from it, and neither had she, and it was that that made all the difference. Occasionally she'd gotten into 'debates' in Muggle Studies back in her own time, but they had always been extremely dull and cordial affairs, and Hermione always was left with the feeling that people simply thought it too much trouble to try and argue with her.

The other part of it was that Tom had also seemed a bit excited by the debate. He'd clearly been surprised when she had tried to argue with him, and then the surprise had turned into irritation, and then… _If only Isopseph hadn't stopped us, _she thought longingly as she stepped into the Potions dungeon. Slughorn was evidently having himself a quick snack and nearly spilled his goblet of mead when she came in.

"Ah, so sorry m'dear, you surprised me during my snack…" he chuckled before winking gamely at her while hastily corking his bottle of mead. He dumped the goblet in a random cauldron before turning back to her and gesturing for her to sit anywhere. "And you must be the new student, Miss Macmillan! I've already heard about your fabulous scores," added Slughorn as he strolled towards her. Hermione took a seat near the supply cabinet and prayed that someone else might enter the room and save her from Slughorn and his ambition to fit in with the 'right' students. Her prayers were answered when the dungeon door creaked open, and who else but Tom sauntered in, followed closely by a pack of Slytherins. _No doubt they couldn't pass the exams to get into any of his other classes, _she thought a bit meanly. _They're lucky that the Potions master is Head of Slytherin. _Her cheeks still were warm from the debate and she hastened to pretend she was studying her cauldron in order to avoid meeting his eyes.

More students filed in, but no one sat at Hermione's cauldron with her. _Great. I forgot what it was like to be friendless. _Before Hogwarts, Hermione had been accustomed to being alone, being picked last for sports teams, to having no partners in class, but Harry and Ron had made her forget all of that. Now it came rushing back and the back of her neck burned with the humiliation of being so clearly alone.

"It seems we're all here. Excellent, then let us begin… Now, I have a particularly intriguing little prize for anyone who can brew… " Hermione stopped listening for a moment as she watched Slughorn, anticipating him holding up the phial of Felix Felicis like he had done for her first class with him. Indeed, moments later he withdrew the little phial, and Hermione immediately set to work. She had a new goal in mind: making sure Voldemort did _not_ get that little bottle.

It was strange, to go from having an immensely satisfying debate with him one minute to giving every ounce of her intellect towards working against him. Once or twice she looked up instinctively, knowing that he was doing the same thing for her. How had it become a competition? Certainly this entire class was competing against one another for the Felix Felicis, and yet somehow it seemed an unspoken truth that really, the ones in competition were her and Tom Riddle.

"Finished at the same time? I should have not expected any less from both of you two. Professor Dumbledore spoke quite highly of you, Miss Macmillan, and of course, who doesn't know of Tom's brilliance?" Slughorn was eyeing her with renewed interest as he checked between their potions for the better solution. Hermione's hands had become quite sweaty, and she knew her hair had probably turned into an epic tumbleweed, with stray tendrils having plastered themselves to her cheeks from the steam of the cauldron. "And of course, it seems we have a tie!"

Slughorn was delighted, but Hermione could not stop from shooting Tom an indignant glower. Tom did the same, though as soon as people began to look at them, they each plastered on feigned friendly smiles.

"Brilliant," Hermione said tightly, accepting her half of the Felix Felicis. "You're quite talented, Riddle."

"As are you, Miss Macmillan," Riddle replied cordially, though behind him were the jeers from his followers. "Of course, after our debate in Arithmancy, I can't say I'm surprised." He was studying her intently now, and though Slughorn was announcing the homework, Hermione once again had stopped listening as she returned Tom's steady stare. "…It seems I've finally met my match…" he added softly. It should have been a compliment, and yet somehow, Hermione saw it as a threat.


	5. 5: Pull the Curtain

Bad Romance

Author's Note: So, I'm new to writing lemony scenes, so any critiques are appreciated.

And I _might_ write a more graphic one for (gasp) which I've never done before. This isn't meant to be a smutty story, and I'm trying to hold off on the smut, but this particular scene was necessary for the plot, so…yeah.

Also it seems like people are faving and alerting this story, but not many people are reviewing. Is it just not very good? Meh. (Huge thanks to those of you who have reviewed. Your reviews are lovely encouragement and keep me going, for certain. I've read each of them many times already!)

Chapter Five: Pull the Curtain

Hermione could not sleep as soundly as she had the night before. Hours were spent tossing and turning, until she was tempted to take a Sleeping Draught just to get a few hours' rest. She was not nearly as exhausted as she had been the night before the first day of classes, and now her brain seemed to take its cue to torment her with memories and images of the final battle. Excruciating most were the memories of their happy times. _I just took it all for granted, _she lamented.

Finally she had to accept that she would not sleep tonight. Hermione stood up and tied a dressing gown over her nightgown, and, after checking that no one was watching her, rummaged through the little beaded bag for the Invisibility Cloak. It was slippery and weightless, and when she slipped it over her, something in her heart lightened. She could walk about for a few hours without constantly watching her back. She brought her wand and the Marauders' Map with her and left Gryffindor tower, free to wander as she pleased now.

Without really intending it, she found herself walking past the places that were most saturated in painful memories of happier times. Though she had vowed to shed no more tears during this mission, she could not stop silent tears from streaming down her cheeks. The corridors were devoid of other students and though she was in immense pain, it was a peaceful kind of pain. Perhaps she should have allowed herself to grieve properly. She had more than fifty years, after all, before she'd see either Ron or Harry again…if all went according to plan. It seemed so far away, and an impossible task, though every time she passed something that reminded her of her best friends, it seemed entirely worth it.

She thought of Ron's blue eyes, the way his mouth would begin to twitch before it would twist into a wry grin, the way his ears would become red when he was embarrassed… More tears came at these images, leaving her breathless with her pain. Before she knew it, she had come to the astronomy tower, and found herself heaving great heavy dry sobs as she looked out over the grounds. She had thought she could control her grief, but at this moment, the world seemed to be filled with reminders of what she had lost.

Footsteps from the foot of the stairs made her clamp her mouth shut and she hastily readjusted the cloak. _If it's Riddle, I'm going to kill someone, _she thought crossly. She did not have her wits about her enough to deal with the future Dark Lord. Fortunately, it was not Riddle who ascended into view, but instead, Dumbledore. He was wearing an emerald silk dressing gown and matching nightcap as well as a knowing smile. He stood a few feet away from her at the window and gazed out before speaking.

"It's a nice night for a walk, isn't it?" he asked to seemingly no one in particular. Hermione wiped her cheeks before letting the cloak slide off. Dumbledore was entirely unsurprised to see her standing there.

"I just needed some air," Hermione explained quickly, though instinctively she knew she was not in trouble for being caught out of the Gryffindor Tower. Dumbledore smiled.

"I cannot imagine what it must be like, to recall the future," he replied lightly, straining to look at the constellations above. "An unusual brand of pain…"

"I've lost people before," Hermione said, following Dumbledore's cue and staring up at the stars. "But this is different. It will be fifty years before I see any of them again…and I have to make sure I don't alter the timeline enough to change too much…"

"I imagine that a bright witch like you will manage just fine." Dumbledore seemed logically optimistic, and it put Hermione in a better mood. "Try not to isolate yourself too much, Hermione. It will make your grief that much more prolonged."

_He would know, _Hermione thought sadly as he excused himself with the added direction that she avoid the Head Boy and Head Girl, who were out on patrols at the moment. Taking heed, Hermione slipped the Cloak back on and began walking back to the Gryffindor tower. Along the way, she rounded a corner and nearly smacked straight into Tom and the Head Girl, a tall, thin, bony girl who reminded Hermione strongly of Neville's rather formidable Gran.

"Well, I must say it was absurd of that Macmillan girl to try and best you in a debate," she was saying, her cheeks pink even in the low light. She looked quite nervous and, from the way she kept glancing at Tom, seemed eager for his attention.

"Oh, she made some excellent points," remarked Tom offhandedly as he squinted down the corridor. Hermione silently flattened herself against the wall. He obviously had sensed someone's presence. "She's quite talented."

"It's so like you to be nice to everyone, even an annoying brat like her," said the Head Girl bitterly. Tom laughed his usual charming laugh and the girl looked highly pleased with herself. Confidence bolstered, the witch pressed on eagerly. "It's _obvious_ she's just doing it because she likes you."

Hermione had to stop herself from lunging at the witch and hexing the living daylights out of her.

"Really? I rather got the opposite impression, Augusta. She seems quite reluctant to be around me." Tom still was straining his eyes, his long fingers curled around his yew wand as he searched the corridor.

"That's just because she's too shy…._And, _I heard she's brewing a _love _potion." Augusta had clearly been saving this tidbit of information for the correct moment.

"Unlikely, though if it were true, it'd be a formidable love potion."

Hermione's cheeks warmed at the compliment, and she was pleased that Tom was defending her against Augusta's ridiculous rumors. Abruptly she realized she was pleased that Voldemort was defending her and nearly groaned in irritation at herself.

Augusta was still sputtering over Tom's immediate defense, and when Tom told her to continue patrolling the rest of the hall in a rather dismissive tone, all she could do was stalk off enraged.

Finally, they were alone.

"I know you're here, Hermione," he announced. Hermione did not move a muscle, and as he slowly began walking closer to her spot, she began panicking inwardly. Surely he would hear the frantic beating of her heart? He stopped mere centimeters away from her. "_Revelio," _he muttered, and Hermione was grateful for the impenetrability of the perfect Invisibility Cloak. Nothing happened, and, thinking he must have truly been alone, Tom scowled openly. The expression twisted his beautiful features into something strangely inhuman, and the pleasant attraction that had been sitting in the very pit of her stomach morphed into icy fear. Looking angry, he looked so much more like the Dark Lord that it was sickening.

He reached out an elegant pale hand and slowly pressed it towards the wall, hairs away from Hermione. It was hard to not breath, and under such pressure she doubted she'd be able to cast _muffliato _nonverbally. "Where are you?" he murmured, leaning in closer. Hermione wished she could shrink into nothingness, but alas, all she could do was wait and see whether he found her. Leaning forward, now his lips were a hairs' breadth from hers. Strangely, in this instance her fear overpowered her attraction to him, and all she could do was think that this boy would grow up to heartlessly attempt to murder an infant. _"Hermione…_"

His hands braced on either side of her head, she thought he must have finally zeroed in on her location.

And then more footsteps were heard, and the scowl was replaced by the faintest hint of a pleasant smile as a prefect came trotting down the corridor.

"Black," Tom greeted pleasantly, and the fear began to dissipate. He couldn't have been much beyond his fifth year, and there was something in his features that suggested traces of both Bellatrix and Sirius. Hermione supposed they must have been traits common in the Black gene pool.

"Riddle," he parried the greeting. "I just saw Augusta; why are you here?"

"Thought I saw something," replied Tom vaguely. He glanced back at where Hermione stood before apparently giving up. "Come on, Alphard, we still have the dungeons left."

As she watched his retreating back, she sank down to the floor, letting out shaking breaths.

If she were going to survive this, she was going to have to take a page out of Harry's book and become a little more gallant than this. She could _not_ let Riddle terrorize her and then attract her.

Hermione finally returned to the Gryffindor tower, still feeling unsettled and nervous. Even once she was in the girls' dormitory, she kept expecting to look over her shoulder and find Riddle standing there, waiting to pounce. She slipped under the covers, cast _muffliato _around her bed, and after she shut the curtains, curled up under the covers. Shutting her eyes tightly, she recalled Ron, for that was what comforted her. His blue eyes…and how they had looked, so filled with love for her, a new love that neither of them understood…She remembered being at the Burrow, how each summer seemed to bring them unbearably closer. How they had worried about Harry together, how they had teased and then ignored each other…

And then, that first night Ron had returned and helped Harry destroy the locket, how they had quietly lain together in the bottom bunk, just holding each other and saying nothing. She had still been furious with him for leaving, and yet, to have his gangling arms around her, to think of how hesitantly he'd returned…She could remember feeling so nervous about lying with him on the bed, pressed up against him in a way they had never been before. It had been so tentative and gentle; she had had no idea that Ron, emotionally-stunted and painfully tactless Ron, could be so sweet and careful to her. His fingers on her cheek, playing with her hair absently…

Tears sprang to her eyes. She _missed _him. She missed looking forward to the nighttime, when they could sneak into each other's beds after Harry had fallen asleep, when they could share their fears about the Horcruxes and the war. Just as they had become so close, it had all been ripped away.

She'd dreamed of them marrying, of living out the rest of their lives together. She had pictured them growing old together. Why hadn't they gotten that? After everything they had been through, why had it been taken away?

And then, she thought, furious with herself, _I had the nerve to be disappointed about his skill. _Her cheeks blazed as she recalled some of the first times they had kissed. The passion had been there-she'd been _sure _of it. And yet, a little voice in her head had pointed out how wet his kisses were, how he never seemed to know what to do with his hands.

Their first night of taking things further, Ron had furtively cast _muffliato _around them, even though they were sure Harry had fallen asleep. With the lights low in the tent, Ron had shifted his weight to lie on top of her. It had been uncomfortable-something had been digging into her side but she felt too awkward to adjust herself-but it had also been sweet and loving. He'd asked if he could kiss her, and then suddenly he'd been crushing his lips against hers. She could feel him swallowing awkwardly, but she'd convinced herself it had been cute. He was puppyish in his inexperience and it was adorable, she told herself. His hands had moved in jagged, uneven motions up and down her sides. She had felt self-conscious because she had been ignoring her appearance for so long, but he seemed to have hardly noticed. She hadn't known what to do with her own hands so she rested them on his waist, trying to return the awkward kisses.

He jammed his tongue into her mouth, clearly trying to be confident and pick up the pace, and she had responded. Suddenly she had felt his arousal in his jeans…and it had scared her. She hadn't been expecting it, really, and she'd pushed him away, in tears and terrified she'd ruined everything.

And then the next night…he'd tried again. This time his kisses were a little less messy, and the mood seemed more comfortable and natural. They'd eased into a makeup session, with Ron careful to avoid placing his hips against her body. And somewhere along the line, she'd angled herself to wrap a leg around him, bringing them as close as they'd been the night before, his arousal just as prominent. _This is Ron Weasley, the boy you love. _It would take some time, she told herself, for them to work out the physical side of their relationship. It was just awkward because she was scared, she decided, and with that, she began grinding her hips against his, desperate to make things work between them, as nothing else in their lives seemed to be working.

He had unceremoniously shoved his hands beneath her jumper, and she'd remembered that the bra she was wearing was not by any means a pretty bra. She'd even considered telling him to stop. But the light was next to nothing in the tent, and she knew Ron wouldn't care; he'd love her either way. When his fingers found her breast, she let out a little gasp of surprise. He'd squeezed, perhaps a little too hard, and by accident her nails had dug into his back.

And then he had slid off her jumper, told her she was beautiful, and kissed her collarbone, though it had taken some awkward maneuvering. Her jumper had fallen off the bunk onto the floor, and even though they had cast muffliato, she worried that Harry would wake up and find her discarded clothes. In turn, she'd taken off Ron's jumper, feeling it the thing to do, and felt awkward at seeing him shirtless. _I'm just scared. It's okay. _But things were strange as his hand reached to unbutton her jeans. His other hand had moved to her breast, and he had spent several minutes attempting to remove her bra before she finally just did it for him. He'd kissed her breasts, but she had been too nervous to enjoy it. Then they both were beginning to feel cold, as it was snowing quite hard outside, and they decided to call it a night. Hermione had jumped down to grab her jumper, her bra on but twisted awkwardly, and Harry had seen her, and she had been unable to speak to him for days. Ron didn't know a thing of it, of course.

_We were so inexperienced…_ She wished she had had a close female friend to speak to, or at least had that kind of friendship with Harry. She had worried so much about whether it was normal to be even a little disappointed about snogging Ron. When Harry was with Ginny, it seemed like they had had eyes only for each other, like their relationship was on fire. And she had felt jealous, a tiny bit, and even though she was ashamed to admit it, once in a while she wondered about whether dating Harry would have been more exciting.

_But we spent all that time together and not once did something happen. _Ron was the one she'd always had tension with, and yet, why did she feel let down by his kisses?

It was strange to recall this memories, and she no longer felt comforted by them. Instead, she returned to her memories of when they had been younger-before they had all started dating each other, when it had just been about friendship.

_Those_ were the times Hermione was fighting for. Not the dramatic romance, nor the excitement of hunting Horcruxes with her best friends. She was fighting for riding back to Hogwarts on the Hogwarts Express with them. She was fighting for visits with Hagrid, for watching Harry so brilliantly play as Seeker, for the vicious fights with Malfoy (yes, even those), for making fun of the different professors, for doing Harry and Ron's homework for them so grudgingly…

And deep down, she didn't even care if she saved the world. For all she wanted back were her two best friends.


	6. 6: Favorite Things

Bad Romance

Author's Note: Thanks to all of you for your lovely reviews!

Chapter Six: Favorite Things

After such a shoddy sleep schedule, Hermione was feeling rather grumpy the next morning. The upside was that when she saw Dumbledore in the Great Hall at breakfast, they waved cheerfully to each other, and Hermione was grateful to begin having the kind of connection with Dumbledore that Harry had always had. Especially in this world, where she was feeling more and more pointedly alone.

The downside, of course, was that Tom would not stop looking suspiciously at her. Irritable and sleep-deprived, Hermione shot him a glare so that she could eat her fried eggs in peace, but mid-chew remembered that her glaring at him made no sense at all, in which case he was going to further suspect that they had indeed had a chance encounter in the corridors the previous night.

_'I'm not exactly as cunning as I thought,'_ Hermione thought sourly as she absently dumped more pepper than intended on her egg. '_At this point, even an idiot would suspect me of something.' _

Augusta was also still looking at her dourly from the other end of the Gryffindor table, and the two boys who had resembled Harry and Ron somewhat were sending her curious looks. All of the negative attention was getting to be a bit much, and she ended up leaving breakfast early just to get away from all of the threatening stares.

_'_Still, she was Hermione Granger, and she did not believe in moping too much. As such, she walked briskly to Herbology, which turned out to be a mix of the four Houses. '_Of course Riddle's here…'_ but he was quite preoccupied as Pansy Parkinson's ancestor clung rather in the manner of a Devil's Snare to his arm, and an older Malfoy was apparently just as sycophantic. Others hovered, of course, leaving Hermione to stand next to the prefect she had seen the night before. 'I guess he is a seventh year after all...'

Up close, she could see that perhaps he did not quite belong in Slytherin. He seemed well-mannered enough, and even had the decency to smile at her when she went to stand at the table next to him. He resembled Sirius more than she had initially noticed, with unruly raven hair that hung past his ears and handsome brown eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled. He was only a few inches taller than her, and reminded her of Harry when he had been younger, with his slight, wiry build. He had that same air of 'troublemaker' that Sirius had had. Perhaps everyone in the Black family came across this way, for Bellatrix had certainly come off as rebellious as well.

"Alphard Black. You must be Hermione MacMillan," he greeted amiably. "I won't trouble you with what I've heard about you; I'm sure you could guess."

Hermione shot him a grateful smile before speaking. Around them, students were still trailing into class, and the professor was rummaging around in the back of the greenhouse.

"Thanks for that. I really don't think I can take one more person comparing me to Tom. Much ado about nothing," she muttered darkly as she scribbled the date at the top of her parchment. Alphard scoffed.

"I suppose you read as well, then? Though I wouldn't have pegged you as a Shakespeare fan."

Hermione glanced over at Alphard. He was studying her intently. Were all Slytherins charismatic like Tom? She wondered if he was already one of Riddle's future Death Eaters. The thought put her on edge and her smile quickly became tight and forced.

"Really? What would you have pegged me as reading?"

"Jane Austen," interrupted a smooth, cultured voice. Alphard and Hermione both jumped slightly to find Tom standing there, looking quite put-upon. "Sorry, but could one of you pass me that tray? Root needs some help."

_Of course he's helping the professor. Teacher's pet,_ Hermione thought bitterly as she schooled her features into an expression of indifference. _Though many people would say the same thing about me…_

"Actually, you're right," Hermione admitted uncomfortably. "She's my favorite Muggle author."

"And I'll bet Pride and Prejudice isn't even your favorite of her books," added Tom slyly. Alphard seemed irritated by Tom's intrusion and handed the tray to him rather roughly. Hermione's cheeks flushed.

"…Right again. Now, can you guess _which _of them is my favorite?" She couldn't help but mimic Tom's flirtatious tone, and she realized they were grinning at each other. She looked away briefly, the eye contact making her nervous.

"Easy. If it isn't Pride and Prejudice…it must be Sense and Sensibility," he parried with a wink.

"Three out of three," she agreed reluctantly, looking away from his dark eyes. Luckily Professor Root saved her from further unintentional flirting as he stood at the head of the broad, low table.

"Welcome to seventh year Herbology," he announced. Hermione noted that there was soil in his patchy white hair, and under his nails as well. He was wearing rough robes and had glasses that more rather resembled headgear than spectacles, and had a shorty, sturdy frame. "Today we will be looking at Flitterbloom. Can anyone tell me the significance of Flitterbloom?"

Hermione's hand shot up into the air at exactly the same time Tom's did, of course. She didn't need to look without knowing it had. Root had the same reaction that the other professors had had to having two top students in his class: with a look of bemusement, he looked between them for a few moments before allowing them each to say one thing about the plant.

"Sir, the Flitterbloom bush very closely resembles Devil's Snare," Hermione said before Tom could get a word in edgewise. Her stomach twisted uncomfortably as Root held up a very young Flitterbloom plant; it was what the nurses at St. Mungo's had thought they were leaving by Broderick Bode's bedside table, when in reality it had been the highly deadly Devil's Snare. She looked over at Tom who, if he was annoyed by Hermione speaking first, was not showing it.

"Yes, and Flitterbloom bushes are harmless…Devil's Snare is quite deadly," Tom added. Root nodded, apparently surprised that anyone knew anything about the Flitterbloom bush.

"Very good, Mr. Riddle and Miss Macmillan. Ten points each to Gryffindor and Slytherin."

Inexplicably, Hermione found herself meeting Tom's eyes, as a chill ran through her.. She still couldn't' get over her surprise that he had been able to guess her favorite book. _Is he a Legilimens already? _She wondered as she and Alphard set to work documenting the characteristics of the Flitterbloom. Next class they would be looking at Devil's Snare and looking at the differences. _But no. He wasn't looking into my eyes, and I know what it feels like to have someone look into my mind. _She recalled how both Ginny and Harry had described the young Lord Voldemort: he was crafty and excellent at judging people's weaknesses, likes, and dislikes. It was important for cultivating a strong following, of course.

"You're pretty quick," said Alphard as he tilted the Flitterbloom to get a better look at the roots. "Riddle _always_ answers all of the questions."

"Well, he'll just have to get used to not getting all of the points," said Hermione rather prissily. Alphard's mouth twisted into a grin, though he still seemed irritable after Tom's intrusion.

"This will be perfect. The two of you will probably fall in love," he said lightly. "It's a shame you aren't Head Girl, or else it'd be picture perfect." There was something resentful in his tone, and Hermione burst out laughing, attracting the attention of the other students, though no one asked them what was so funny. Hermione leaned in closer and lowered her voice.

"Seriously, Alphard, Riddle is not my type. He's a bit fake, if you ask me, though I will admit I can see how he's got such a following."

Alphard seemed to perk up after that and Hermione wondered if he was interested in her. _No, he's probably just tired of every single girl gushing over Riddle, _she thought dismissively. Still, she couldn't help but note the glances that Alphard kept shooting her way, even when they were not talking. After class ended, she and Alphard parted, and she urged him to study with her sometime, feeling strangely confident. _Perhaps because I'm not used to someone finding me cute, _she thought ruefully, though there was definitely a spring in her step as she walked to her next class.

After Herbology came Muggle Studies, and then Defense Against the Dark Arts. Hermione knew her luck pretty well at this point, and thus was hardly surprised when Tom Riddle came sauntering in. Professor Merrythought, a quite elderly witch, bustled over to Hermione immediately.

"You're new, aren't you? Dumbledore has mentioned you-I hear your scores are _quite_ impressive." Merrythought seemed excited, and Hermione's cheeks reddened.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," she said, nearly choking on her words when Tom proceeded to sit in the empty spot next to her.

"Tom! So glad you're in my class. Look at this, the two best students sitting side by side!" she squealed, and Hermione fought the urge to smack the old witch and order her to get a grip on herself. Merrythought returned to the front of the class and began setting her books up, every now and then sending a rather sycophantic grin in their direction. Hermione began setting up her things, and thus was quite startled when Tom leaned in inches from her to speak.

"I bet you can't guess my favorite book," Tom said in a low voice. She could feel his breath on the shell of her ear, and the hairs on her neck stood on end. Mastering herself, she turned to him, smiling sweetly.

"Perhaps Winnie the Pooh?" she asked innocently. Tom snorted.

"Close. But not quite. Try again."

Hermione sighed thoughtfully. She would have never thought of Voldemort reading for pleasure, and she grinned at the image of the older Voldemort curled up in the library. "You find this funny?" Tom raised his elegant brows at her questioningly.

"Sorry. I just don't see how you could have guessed my favorite book so easily," Hermione apologized.

"Oh, it was easy. You seem intellectual…so, you'd appreciate the classics. But I think you have a romantic streak in you, so you'd enjoy a very well-done romance. And I would bet my wand that you are an avid supporter of women's rights, so you would undoubtedly prefer a woman author. Finally, you'd probably hate to be too conventional, so you'd never like the most well-known book that the author had written."

Hermione mimicked him and raised her eyebrows at him.

"Very good. Let's see…I can tell by how you dress that you like the 'finer things' in life, so it would have to be a highly revered book. Since you know about Jane Austen, you must have read other Muggle books, so your favorite book is likely a Muggle book." She paused, waiting for him to affirm her suspicions. Tom nodded.

"Yes, you're getting there. Go on."

"You have a flair for the dramatic, so it would be an epic…not a little novel, that's for certain," she continued thoughtfully, gaining more momentum. "It would have to be a book that most people are not intelligent enough to read or understand, because you enjoy knowing you can do things other people can't."

There was a flicker of surprise in Tom's eyes, but he hid it expertly. "And yet, you have a reverence for the old, classic way of thinking…Somehow this leads me to believe you'd prefer something of Greek Mythology."

Tom rested his chin in his hand, staring at her. Her skin warmed at his attention but she was careful to never look into his eyes for too long, lest he look into her mind.

"You're getting quite close."

He opened his mouth to speak further, but finally, it seemed, Defense Against the Dark Arts had begun.

"I decided I'd start us off with a little refresher," Merrythought was saying, fingering her wand as she stared out at the room of students. "I think a little elementary dueling might help us remember the things we forgot over the summer. Sort yourselves into pairs and then begin dueling-NO HEXES," she added with a fierce scowl at the Weasley and Potter boys, then at Malfoy. Hermione smiled to herself and began glancing around the room, hoping to find another person who didn't have a partner. Beside her, Riddle was rejecting a number of students who wanted to be his partner.

"Hermione? Would you do me the honor of being my partner?" he bent down in a feigned chivalrous bow, and just as Hermione was about to decline, Merrythoght squealed that it would be a wonderful idea.

"I've been curious to see whether Dumbledore was telling the truth about you," she explained, "and I think Mr. Riddle would be quite the challenge!"

"She's much more talented than I am, Professor," Tom said modestly, playing the part of the modest top student perfectly. Hermione fixed on a smile to hide her annoyed expression, and, her smile still fixed, accepted Riddle's request.

"You still haven't guessed," Tom reminded her as they bowed to each other.

"Give me a chance to think on it," she snapped. Around them, students were inexpertly firing hexes and charms at each other. She and Tom raised their wands at each other. "As I was saying, it would be something from Greek Mythology, perhaps," she added as she dodged Tom's spell. She cast _expelliarmus_, which he dodged with ease. "Perhaps the Odyssey? But no, I don't think Odysseus would be your hero. You're in Slytherin, so perhaps a darker tale."

They continued dodging and side-stepping each other's spells. Hermione hated to admit it, but he was very fast, and it was taking an inordinate amount of effort to continue dueling with him. So far neither had landed a hit, but Hermione had the uncomfortable notion that Tom was holding back. She racked her brains, trying to think of what she associated with Voldemort, and abruptly she thought of Tom abducting Ginny and dragging her back to the Chamber of Secrets. "I know what it is!" she said excitedly, but did not dodge Tom's spell in time and it grazed her cheek. Suddenly it was as though a ghost had passed through her. He had cast a Freezing charm. She began shivering as she cast a warming charm, and shot back a Tickling spell at him, which he dodged. It hit Augusta in the back and she began giggling quite uncharacteristically until Merrythought cast the anticharm to it.

"Well?" Tom asked. Hermione was pleased to find he was slightly out of breath.

"Persephone. You like the tale of Hades and Persephone." Her tone was nearly accusatory, and she expected him to confirm her guess, but he merely grinned.

"Close, Hermione. Very, very close. But not quite."

In irritation, she fired an Itching hex at him, and he cast _protego _before casting a Full Body Bind spell. Hermione didn't dodge it in time and she crashed to the floor rather humiliatingly.

"Oh goodness!" Merrythought cried. With a lazy flick of his wand, Tom freed her and helped her up before she could tell him she didn't need it. "Dumbledore was right; no one has ever lasted so long in a duel with Mr. Riddle!" Merrythought seemed thrilled. She ordered the students back to their seats, and throughout the rest of the lesson, cast irritating approving looks between Tom and Hermione.

"Your footwork is fine, and I know you can cast spells. But you're a bit slow with the spells. Nothing a little practice can't fix," Tom whispered as they took down notes. Hermione's cheeks flushed; she hated needed critiquing on anything.

"You're a know-it-all prat," she hissed before she could stop herself. Far from being hurt or suspicious, Tom seemed quite amused.

"I think many would say the same about you," he said smoothly. Hermione was sure her face could not get any redder at this point, and she was not in the mood to have Tom easily rebuke everything she said; thus she simply settled for glowering at him every now and then, to which he responded by chuckling lightly. Around her, Hermione could feel the jealous stares of other students. For some inexplicable reason, she was slightly glad that Alphard was not in this class.


	7. 7: Laws of Thermodynamics

Bad Romance

Author's Note: A lot of you commented on the fact that Hermione did not beat Riddle in dueling. Remember, while Hermione is obviously a fantastic witch, dueling has never exactly been her strong suit, and she can become quite timid if she's not protecting Harry or Ron. Plus…at this point, Voldemort has already murdered Tom Riddle Sr. and his family (as well as possible others). He is already quite powerful, and much more vicious than Hermione.

…Of course, the biggest reason is that I need Hermione to not beat Riddle yet for plot reasons!

Enjoy.

Chapter Seven: Laws of Thermodynamics

Hermione might have been on her period, for she was feeling quite crabby. Getting beaten by Riddle in Defense Against the Dark Arts had caused her mood to plummet, and she stormed off to the library, hopeful that she would not encounter Riddle there. His triumphant gleam in his dark eyes and condescending dueling tips were enough to send her irritation into overdrive, and she needed her wits about her if she were to both complete her enormous amounts of homework as well as begin planning her mission in earnest.

Most students were enjoying the last few warm days outside, and most professors had not assigned much homework. Therefore the library was blessedly empty, and Hermione happily settled down at a table by the window, spreading her things out and breathing a sigh of relief. Several hours passed, until she had missed dinner and it was quite dark outside. Feeling accomplished and much calmer and more like herself, Hermione stared out the window, wondering where to start with her plans.

Without really intending it, she found herself retrieving the Invisibility Cloak when she returned to stash her books at Gryffindor Tower. _Harry and Ron would be proud, _she thought wryly as she pushed past the doors to the Great Hall. The ground was a bit wet and all was silent save for the sounds of the night. _Peaceful…safe. _She relaxed entirely and let herself wander about the grounds, even daring to go as far as to wander at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. The low level of adrenaline was pleasant, and she began to feel more and more daring. She crept into the Forbidden Forest, exploring for a bit before deciding to leave when she began to hear the sound of hooves. Firenze had been kind towards humans, but that hardly meant that other centaurs would. She walked to the top of the hill where the Shrieking Shack would soon sit, and stared at the views surrounding her.

It was about eleven o'clock now. Hermione ventured down the hill towards Hogsmeade, which looked like an idyllic painting, with its different buildings covered in little squares of warm yellow light. She was feeling quite adventurous now, so she went behind a tree, slipped the Cloak into her bag, and then entered the somewhat dodgy Hog's Head.

It was dimly lit in the pub. A few Hags sat around a table near the front, and a wolfish looking man was tearing into a raw slab of meat. Remembering Fenrir Greyback, Hermione shuddered and hugged her arms round herself. All eyes were on her as she walked through the pub and finally sat at the bar. Aberforth, looking much younger and yet still grizzled and unkempt, was polishing grubby glasses, his eyebrows raised as his twinkling blue eyes, so like his brother's, fixed on her.

"Not another one of you 'Ogwarts lot," a toothless wizard groaned, and Hermione bristled slightly. Another one? Was there another student in here? _Probably Riddle, _she thought darkly, and looked for a place to hide, but stopped when her gaze landed on a familiar head of unruly black hair, seated in a booth, his head low, talking to two students that looked like Slytherins.

_Alphard. _She frowned but decided it wouldn't be a big problem if Alphard saw her here, and she climbed up onto a barstool.

"Well?" Aberforth stared at her expectantly.

"Just a butterbeer," Hermione said hastily, sliding a few Sickles cross the table. Aberforth set a dusty bottle on the counter in front of her a little harder than necessary, and she saw Alphard tense before shooting a wary glance over his shoulder. When their eyes met, he looked entirely surprised, before a smile slowly started to take shape. Hermione waved a little shortly before attending to her butterbeer, though Alphard was coming her way. She noticed he was wearing a black hooded cloak that seemed a little finer than the traveling cloaks that were standard issue for Hogwarts students, and when he turned to her, it swirled impressively around him.

"Hermione," he greeted, his eyes twinkling. "Never thought I'd see you here."

"I didn't think I'd see you here either, actually," Hermione admitted. Over Alphard's shoulder were the two students he had left behind. They were staring at Hermione a bit threateningly. Alphard followed her gaze and glanced over his shoulder at his table.

"Never mind that. How on earth did you get out?" He cocked his head to the side, intrigued. Hermione decided this was not the best time to tell the truth, and simply shrugged and gave a mysterious smile.

"Oh, you know. I have my ways," she replied. "What are you doing here?"

Alphard shifted uncomfortably, a guilty look passing over his handsome face. His mouth twitched, as though he were holding back a response.

"Just having some fun," he finally said dismissively. "I'd offer to buy you a drink, but I see you already have got one."

"You two best get back to your beds," Aberforth interrupted grumpily. Alphard shot him a grin that was startlingly reminiscent of Sirius.

"C'mon Aberforth, is that any way to treat a paying customer?"

"You don't belong here," said Aberforth simply, still polishing. Hermione wondered what the point of this activity was, as the rag he was using was filthy, and most of the customers here did not seem the type to care whether their glasses were clean. "You shouldn't be talking to that lot," he added with a nearly imperceptible nod at Alphard's 'friends.' Alphard's expression hardened but he did not supply a retort.

"I-I should go," Hermione said suddenly. Aberforth muttered a particularly profane agreement as Hermione slid off the barstool, abandoning her grimy butterbeer. Alphard looked anxious, and followed Hermione out into the unseasonably balmy night.

"Hermione, no need to be a stranger!" Alphard called after her as they burst out the door. "I know the bullying between Gryffindor and Slytherin has gotten worse lately, but it's not like they have anything against you."

"I just think that pub looked dodgier inside than I realized," Hermione said lightly.

For a moment they stood there awkwardly, facing each other but not meeting each other's eyes.

"I ought to head back," Hermione said quietly after several minutes of silence. Alphard swallowed and nodded, but as she turned to go, he reached out, grabbing her arm.

"W-wait," he stammered. "Thanks," he said hastily. "And, er, you should come to the Quidditch game. I'm Seeker for Slytherin, and I have to say, I'm a hell of a lot more to look at than Potter."

Hermione blinked in surprise. Here Alphard was, flirting again with her for absolutely no reason. Her cheeks warmed again, and Alphard looked pleased even though she hadn't spoken.

"Of course!" she finally spoke. Alphard grinned before releasing her.

"See you at Herbology," he called after her as she trotted back up the hill, her heart pounding and her face most likely molten red to her hairline.

Hiding behind the same tree, Hermione twirled the Invisibility Cloak around her shoulders, and began to step away when she noticed something at the foot of the hill. Bathed in golden light from the windows, the two other Slytherins had joined Alphard to stand outside. Hermione desperately wished to turn away and return to the castle, lest she get caught, but remembered that she was supposed to be trying to emulate Harry's bravery. _And remember how Harry tailed Malfoy in a manner beyond obsessive last year? _Shaking her head at her own cowardice, Hermione cast muffliato and crept back down the hill. She positioned herself behind a low bush and crouched down so that she could peer over the top of it.

"Who is that girl? Is that the one-"

"She's just a girl," Alphard replied quickly. "She's new to Hogwarts so I think she doesn't realize how easy it is to get caught leaving the castle."

"Awfully cozy with our Lord, don't you think?"

Alphard didn't respond for a moment.

"He's not here, you know. You can just call him Tom or Riddle," he finally said quietly. The other two students laughed raucously.

"Y'know, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you weren't on our side. Defending Gryffindors, not calling him by his proper name…"

Hermione's heart began to pound for different reasons as she watched the two students creep closer in a threatening way to Alphard. They were both looking a little too close to drawing their wands, and just in case, Hermione reached into her pocket, closing her fist round her wand, breathing little shallow breaths.

Just before anything happened, however, a taller, more graceful figure swept into their little patch of light and lowered his hood, revealing Tom's pale, handsome face.

"Avery. Lestrange. Black," he greeted. They all-even Alphard-dropped into deep bows.

"My Lord," said Avery. "We have nothing to report. Greyback would not have audience with us."

Tom waved his hand dismissively. "No matter. We'll get him later. Have you talked to the giant yet?" This question was directed at Alphard and he shook his head.

"Over the winter holidays, I plan to go there."

"Acceptable. You have done well."

Avery and Lestrange looked sycophantically pleased; Alphard's expression was unreadable, especially in the dim light.

"My lord, there was-" Lestrange halted when Alphard interrupted him.

"That barman in there resembles Dumbledore; have you noticed?"

_He's saving me…_Hermione felt a spasm of affection for Alphard. Tom looked suspiciously at his followers, but said nothing on the matter.

"Let's go back," he said finally. "We're expected to be patrolling right now; we will be missed."

Tom's cloak swirled regally around him as he turned to begin walking back to the castle; the three Slytherins followed him quickly and much less elegantly. Hermione waited for several minutes before leaving her hiding spot; even with the Cloak she knew from experience that she had to be careful. Not wanting to risk meeting the Dark Lord or his followers on the way back, Hermione resumed her wandering of Hogsmeade, awash in the memories of her trips there with Ron and Harry; especially Ron. The few times that it had been just the two of them were surprisingly not the most poignant of these memories, and she found herself getting more choked up at the memories of being there with both Harry and Ron.

After an hour or two, she finally decided she had reminisced enough for one night, and she began trekking back to the castle. She quickly checked the Marauder's Map; there was a secret passageway that she recognized as the one that had been caved in for her time at Hogwarts. _But it's probably not caved in now, is it? _

She crept through the tunnel that was indeed still in tact, and double-checked the Map before popping out the other side, from behind a suit of armor near Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. No one was around, thankfully, and Hermione kept the Cloak on, still tiptoeing along, just in case.

The banging of a door stopped her in her tracks, and Tom stepped out of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, brushing off his robes. Hermione's heart nearly stopped working and she frantically looked down at the map. _Of course! It doesn't show the Chamber of Secrets; that must be where he had been until just now. _Tom was far enough from her that she decided it safe enough to continue tiptoeing; the corridor was so narrow that had she stayed put, he might have brushed up against her.

Still, she knew he suspected someone's presence, for he suddenly seemed on edge. When her shoe scraped against the stone floor, they both froze in their tracks.

A flash of red might have passed in his eyes; she couldn't be sure. Hermione bit back her shriek of fear and began moving as swiftly and silently as possible.

"Hermione!" Tom called out, though he did not quicken his own pace. Heart hammering against her chest, Hermione consulted the map for shortcuts but found no helpful ones. Panicking, she swung into a classroom whose door was just ajar enough that it made no sound when she slipped inside.

_How does he always know it's me? _She wondered, watching the little dot labeled 'Tom Riddle' make its way back to the Slytherin dungeons. Her heart gave a funny little jump when she saw Alphard there as well.

And then, quite suddenly, she was disgusted with herself. How could she possibly allow herself to get excited about Alphard? She had just been mourning her boyfriend's death moments before, and now here she was, mooning over Alphard.

_I'm just lonely, _she told herself firmly. _But from now on I've got to put a stop to this and remember who I'm fighting for. _

* * *

><p>Transfiguration with Dumbledore had been the class Hermione had been looking forward to most, and she was not disappointed. She was so transfixed by Dumbledore's sheer brilliance that she nearly forgot about the fact that Tom had decided to sit right next to her. She was almost positive that he had done it to unnerve her; just hours ago they had nearly run into each other in the corridors. Hermione started slightly when she felt something brush her arm; Tom was reaching over so slowly that it was hard to tell what he was doing. Dumbledore had his back turned to them momentarily as he drew a diagram of something.<p>

_You still haven't guessed, _he wrote in his elegant script.

_Hercules? _Hermione wrote halfheartedly.

_No. You're close, though. _

_You keep saying that! _she wrote, her writing a little messy as she hastened to finish before Dumbledore turned round again.

_It's not Greek Mythology per se, but the Greeks borrowed from it quite a bit. _

_So it's old?_

_Very. One of the first books, I daresay. _

Hermione couldn't believe it: she was stumped. She turned slightly to glare at Riddle, to make clear her irritation with him, but the only thing that happened was that she glanced at his jaw line and neck, and how his dark hair curled so slightly against his pale skin; his Adam's Apple and smooth but, somehow, masculine lips… Her cheeks flushed and she inwardly smacked herself. _Don't think dirty thoughts about Lord Voldemort, you idiotic pervert, _she scolded herself, her face very pink now. She turned away and caught a passing glimpse of his wicked grin, and she nearly hit her head against the desk.

_It's perfectly all right to stare. _Hermione nearly stabbed him with her quill after she saw that.

_I was _**not** _staring. _

_I suppose you're the type who prefers to live in belligerent denial, then…_

_Stop analyzing me! If I want that, I'll pay for a Muggle psychologist!_

_I highly doubt you'd prefer to stare at an old fat bearded Muggle. _

He was so infuriating that Hermione almost was unable to Transfigure her desk to make it walk round the room; luckily her irritation towards Tom propelled her to do an even better job than him, and while his desk sauntered at seemingly its own will, Hermione was able to march hers up and down the aisles.

"Well done, Miss Macmillan," Dumbledore congratulated, and Hermione beamed at him, just before sending Tom a satisfied little smirk. Tom raised his eyebrows; wicked grin still in place.

"We'll just have to see who wins the duel next time," Tom murmured wickedly into her ear as she began packing up her things at the end of class. Hermione turned, wand in hand, preparing to threaten to Hex him into a weevil, but Tom was already leaving the classroom. Just before leaving, he glanced over his shoulder and winked.

Hermione nearly set her books on fire in her irritation and embarrassment when she felt her knees grow weak and her face actually heating more in the most furious blush of the day so far.


	8. 8: Ice Queen

Bad Romance

Author's Note: So, I normally follow the continuum of the books. However, I include a detail that occurs (at least I'm pretty sure) only in the DH part one movie. Sorry for this discontinuity but it makes things easier plotwise.

Thanks for all the lovely reviews as per usual, and keep 'em coming!

Chapter Eight: Ice Queen

The novelty of being back at Hogwarts in such a remarkable year soon faded and was replaced by the discomfort of returning to a tightly scheduled life. In hunting Horcruxes, Hermione had grown accustomed to her days being filled with traveling and pondering. She and Harry had slept for a few hours when they could no longer keep their eyes open, and eat when they were on the verge of passing out from hunger. Hermione had forgotten what it was like to go through each day with a set routine, and now that she had returned to it, she realized it was difficult to go back.

Not that she preferred being filthy, exhausted, and hungry all the time, as well as continually fending off a sense of hopelessness and desperation. It was also nice to receive three square meals each day, sleep until it was time to go to breakfast, and simply float from one activity to the next. But it was strange to know that other people, grownups, had the most say over her time. Technically yes, she did have a mission, but that mission would not really begin for several years.

It was also strange to have so much human interaction. Sometimes, as Hermione would walk through the halls or sit in the common room, she would feel like a shimmering ghost compared to the talking, moving, breathing bodies around her. She felt that she had forgotten how to make friends, how to interact with normal people. She felt removed from the melodramatic and sanguine lives of teenagers, for she had been living through a war for so long. In fact, the only people that actually spoke to her besides her professors were Tom Riddle and Alphard. She had the sense that she was simply too old, had seen too much, to be a part of their adolescent world.

Seeing the Potter and Weasley ancestors was painful, because every once in a while, out of the corner of her eye she would see them and her heart would, for an instant, leap up. Then she'd remember they were not Harry and Ron, and the pain would resurface. Then she'd try to recreate that feeling, of thinking she had seen them out of the corner of her eye, and she knew it was sick to try to pass between these two worlds. She had to accept that Harry and Ron were not even born yet. Their parents weren't even born yet.

What it came down to was that Hermione was quite lonely, and she attributed her attraction to both Alphard and Tom as simply the desire for attention. But who to befriend? All girls seemed to hate her; she'd even narrowly missed instances of bullying from them-even Gryffindor girls-for her perceived rapport with Tom. And befriending boys would have been easier in first or second year, when it was less suspicious for a girl to talk to a boy. Now, in seventh year, anything could be seen as an attempt at romantic involvement, a complication she felt she already was dealing with anyway.

Thus the days passed. Each day Hermione and Tom had their witty banter in their classes, and Hermione was even getting more skilled at not becoming so flustered by everything Tom said. Each night, Hermione would venture further and further from the confines of the castle, in the safety of the Invisibility Cloak. She was getting to know the grounds quite well, and even wandered far into the Forbidden Forest a few times.

Finally Saturday arrived, and with it, the first Quidditch game. Hermione did not remember Quidditch games starting up so early in her own time, but perhaps the rules had changed. That morning the Great Hall was decked out in both Gryffindor and Slytherin colors, and all of the students seemed to have taken a side. Indeed, Harry's grandfather was Seeker for Slytherin. Across the hall, Hermione spotted Alphard. She had to admit he looked quite handsome in his Quidditch uniform, and she was surprised that Tom was not on the Quidditch team as well.

Hermione caught Alphard's eye and he winked at her whilst fending off some eager Slytherin girls. Perhaps he was the second most eligible Slytherin bachelor, after Tom of course.

"I expect you'll be supporting Slytherin then, since you're such besties with the Head Boy," a sneering voice drew her from her pondering and she jumped slightly. Harry's grandfather's lip was curled in a look of pure distaste towards her.

_Alphard was right. He is a hell of a lot more to look at than Potter, _Hermione realized as she shrugged at him.

"I'll be supporting Gryffindor, and that's the end of it," she replied flatly. The Seeker raised his eyebrows at her. "And I'd appreciate it if you would not bother me about Riddle; I get enough bullying from the girls as it is. I'm not '_besties' _with him at all."

Potter seemed surprised by her words, but Hermione was feeling too exasperated to bother staying at the table. All of these comments about her and Tom had caused her to lose her appetite, and she stood and left, deciding to freshen up a bit before the game.

_Not that I care if Alphard thinks I'm pretty, _she told herself firmly as she ran a brush through her hair. _But just because I'm here on a mission doesn't mean I have to completely neglect my appearance. _

Though if Lavender or Parvati or Ginny saw her, they'd probably be horrified at the fact that she called brushing her hair as taking care of her appearance. Hermione grinned when she imagined their reactions and spritzed a tiny bit of perfume on her wrists and neck before heading out to the Quidditch pitch.

There was a deafening roar as Hermione took her seat in the stands; the players were walking out onto the field.

"Slytherin's put together quite a team this year: Alphard Black returning as Seeker-" as the commentator spoke, the Slytherin stands seemed to erupt in cheers so loud that Hermione thought her eardrums might burst. He listed the rest of the team, giving some names that Hermione uncomfortably recognized as Death Eater names. But no one cheered as loudly for the rest as they had for Alphard and Hermione smiled even though she knew he couldn't see it. "And Gryffindor as usual has a stellar team, with Geoffrey Potter as Seeker," more cheering that rumbled the stands drowned out whatever the commentator said after that. It was easy to see that Geoffrey Potter and Alphard were rivals; from where Hermione sat she could tell they were even the same height.

"Nice to see you're interested in Quidditch." Hermione glanced over her shoulder to find Tom and Augusta standing there. Augusta was wearing a little pin of a lion's head that roared every now and then; Tom wore an emerald green tie. She forced a smile at them. "As Head Boy and Head Girl, we're really not allowed to take sides, sadly," Tom explained when he saw Hermione examining their 'team spirit.' Augusta was looking rather surly at having to watch Tom interact with Hermione, and frequently sighed loudly.

"They're off!" The game had begun. Hermione knew not a single thing about Quidditch, but she could still tell that Alphard and Geoffrey were evenly matched as Seekers. _They'd be screwed if they ever had to play against Harry, _thought Hermione with pride. Alphard and Geoffrey both seemed quite skilled, but Hermione knew Harry's Quidditch abilities were rare and especially impressive. No one made daring dives or hairpin turns; it was not as exciting of a match because of this. Hermione stiffened when she realized someone was sitting down next to her; she had assumed it would be Tom but when she turned, she saw his and Augusta's backs as they circled the stands. Instead, it was a Weasley who had sat down next to her. He looked similar to Ron, with his red hair, long nose, and famous freckles, but that was where the similarities ended.

"Look," he began uncomfortably, "I'm sorry about Geoff this morning. Everyone was saying you were in a secret relationship with Riddle, and then they were saying you were coming to this match to support Black."

Hermione stared witheringly at him.

"Why does anyone _care?_"

He shrugged.

"Dunno. I guess because you're the new girl, and no one's ever given Riddle any competition. And you don't talk to anyone." He shrugged again. "But from what you told us, it sounded like all of that was just from the rumor mill, so…I'm sorry, I guess." He held his hand out. "The name's Rupert. I saw you talking to Riddle earlier and it looked like you weren't kidding about not being friends with him. Could freeze hell over with a look like that, you could." He was so apologetic and embarrassed looking that Hermione let herself grin and shake his hand.

"I don't know where all of these rumors started," she replied. "Though Alphard has been extremely nice to me; so yes, I am partially here because he asked me to be here. But I'm still supporting Gryffindor, of course!"

Rupert smiled.

"That's fine. Everyone likes Black anyway; he's not like the other Slytherins. Everyone except for Geoff, because they're rivals in Quidditch and all." Just as he spoke, Slytherin scored a goal. The Slytherin stands roared their approval; the Gryffindors disagreed loudly. High up above, Alphard was circling, searching for the Golden Snitch. Geoffrey had taken to weaving in and out of the players and circling the bottom of the stands.

The match didn't last long. Geoffrey got tied up telling off a Slytherin for swinging at one of the Chasers, and Alphard had spotted the Snitch and won the game. Hermione didn't cheer for Slytherin, lest the Gryffindors hurt her, but she couldn't help but feel proud of Alphard. _Well, at least even the Gryffindors like him. It's okay to be happy for him. _Content with her reasoning, Hermione began heading back to the castle, though on the way, Alphard prised himself from his fans and jogged towards Hermione from the pitch.

"You came!" he sounded so pleased. Hermione couldn't help but return his grin.

"You were amazing," she replied, glancing around to make sure no Gryffindors were watching. Alphard grabbed her hand rather recklessly.

"Come with me for a sec," he ordered with a roguish grin, and began pulling her behind the stands, which were a network of wooden beams. So well shaded, it was cool and dark beneath them, and Hermione was grateful to be out of the sun.

"Isn't this cool? Look up," he breathed, pointing upwards, his hand still clutching hers. Tentatively Hermione looked up, making sure to not hit her head on a beam, and saw that the beams went up for thirty feet or so. The massiveness of the structure of the stands was impressive and, in a strange and technical way, quite beautiful.

"I never thought about what the stands looked like inside," she admitted. She continued to look upwards, because she could feel Alphard's eyes on her. "You know, in Hogwarts, a History, it says that-" she began, but Alphard interrupted her.

"You're different," he declared. Hermione finally found the courage to meet his eyes again. "You don't like Tom, you wander round the grounds at night…you aren't giggly, like the other girls. You're brilliant, but you're nice, too. And you just have this look…like you've _seen_ stuff."

Hermione's eyes widened, and she was about to respond, but footsteps stopped her.

They both turned around and Hermione felt Alphard drop her hand abruptly. Tom and Augusta were walking towards them. Augusta looked gleeful; Tom looked indifferent.

"You're out of bounds," Augusta said with a wicked smile. "Students aren't allowed here when there isn't Quidditch practice or a Quidditch game." She looked like she might dance as she surveyed Alphard and Hermione. "Ten points from Gryffindor and Slytherin each."

"Doesn't matter, as I just won three hundred and sixty-" Alphard began, but Tom cut him off.

"Make that fifteen," he said coolly. Alphard looked appealingly to Tom, but Tom had already turned on his heel to walk away. Augusta trotted happily after him, but not without sending one more look of triumph over her shoulder at Hermione.

"I suppose we should go back then," Hermione said finally, after Tom and Augusta were well out of earshot. Alphard gave her an apologetic smile.

"Sorry about that. Can't believe Riddle took points," he muttered as they began making their way back to the castle. "It'll probably be round the school by the time we reach the Great Hall."

"Just what I need: more rumors…" Hermione groaned. "Everyone already hates me because they think…" she paused before laughing callously, her frustration from the whole situation bubbling over. "…they think Riddle and I are in a _secret relationship,_" she finished disgustedly. Alphard laughed but there was something off about it. Hermione wasn't quite sure what to say. She had expected Alphard to agree with her about the absurdity of the idea, but after that, they parted ways rather awkwardly. Alphard's tone was overly polite as he thanked her for coming to watch the game, and it was with great irritation that Hermione went to the library to get some work done. Most students were in the Great Hall, eating lunch, and Hermione had no desire to be on the receiving ends of their suspicious looks and whispering.

The library was empty save for Tom; by the time she realized it was him, he had already spotted her and it would have not gone unnoticed had she turned around and left. Summoning her courage, Hermione stopped in front of the table where he was doing work and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Why didn't you stop Augusta from docking points? Isn't Black your friend?"

Tom didn't look up as he spoke.

"Rules are rules," he replied simply. Hermione watched as he wrote in his elegant script, ignoring the spike of envy. She had round, immature handwriting-she'd always envied others who had attractive handwriting.

"The game had just ended!" Hermione exploded. "That's why we were there!"

"And yet you should have been on your way back to the castle, Macmillan." The use of her fake surname seemed to confirm that he was annoyed with her, and Hermione flushed but it was from anger. She couldn't think of anything to say, so she let out an irate grumble before stomping off to the other end of the library, earning her a glower from the librarian.

It was too risky to try and make plans with Riddle in the library; Hermione settled for working on her homework instead. An hour passed before a shadow crossed over her parchment and she looked up to find Geoffrey Potter and Rupert Weasley standing there looking quite concerned.

"You got caught snogging Alphard Black in the stands _right after_ you told Rupert you disliked all of the Slytherins!" Geoffrey hissed as Rupert looked around warily for the librarian. Hermione gripped her quill so hard it snapped. "After us losing the game and all of the bullying that's been going on, you'd think you'd be a little more discrete about who you snog!"

"You can ask Augusta or Riddle: Alphard was simply showing me the architecture of the stands," Hermione snapped. "And it's none of your business who I snog. It's funny, the Gryffindors are treating me much worse than anyone else."

Geoffrey was about to argue, but Rupert stomped on his foot abruptly. Hermione saw why: Riddle was walking over to them, looking deeply hassled.

"Sorry," Rupert said hastily, gripping Geoffrey's arm and tugging at him. "He was harassing Hermione here. I'll make him leave." Geoffrey looked mad about this turn of events, but left with Rupert before Tom had the chance to dock more points from Gryffindor. Now Hermione was alone with Tom again; with the sunlight streaming in from the windows and the way it was hitting him, he looked like he might have been an angel and it took Hermione's breath away before she had the chance to stop herself from thinking such ridiculous thoughts.

"D-did you finish the Ancient Runes homework?" she asked quickly to dispel the strange silence that had settled between them. Riddle's brow creased.

"What's that on your arm?" he asked, reaching forward. Hermione blanched when she realized that the edge of the unique scar Bellatrix had given her was peeking out from under her shirt sleeve which had ridden up.

"N-nothing!" Hermione said hastily, withdrawing her arm. "Just an old scar." There wasn't any way he could have seen all of it; only the 'o' and 'd' had been visible. Riddle seemed sated with that information, though Hermione had the sneaking suspicion that this wasn't the end of this particular discussion.

"If you are indeed snogging Black, you might want to keep it a secret. You're new here, so you don't understand, but the war between Slytherin and Gryffindor house is quite a problem lately. Potter and Weasley's reactions are quite mild to how everyone else will treat it."

Hermione glowered at Tom.

"You _know_ I'm not. And that's ridiculous; Alphard is the only person here who has been nice to me at all. He was simply being nice to me and you're making me suffer just as much as everyone else is for it." Hermione hadn't intended to snap at Tom; it had just happened. Tom leaned forward, bracing his hands on the table across from her, and gave her a level stare.

"Except that I know you don't believe that's why, and you know I don't believe it either," he replied calmly.

"Jealous?" It was out before she could stop it, but it was too late now. Her inner Gryffindor lion was roaring because of her feelings of irritation, loneliness, and the pent up grief, and she could not stop herself from lashing out. Tom scoffed.

"What if I am?

Her breath caught; there was silence. _He knew that answer would surprise me. He's trying to manipulate me. _

"You're full of shit, Riddle," she said flatly. Tom smirked broadly. His gaze was suffocating as he stared at her.

"So are you, Hermione. Because I know you don't believe for a second that Alphard was really just 'being nice.' Boys are _never_ simply nice to pretty girls." There was something cold about his voice that was quite reminiscent of who he would soon grow up to become, and Hermione felt herself begin to perspire in nervousness. _Don't back down now, _she told herself. _He's goading you; don't let him get the better of you. _

"So you think I'm pretty then?" she parried, quirking an eyebrow and putting on a mask of bravado and cool amusement. Tom's laugh was a little warmer now; Hermione wondered why.

"Why else would everyone be so intrigued by you? You're as brilliant as me, and you're beautiful but frigid."

_He's lying to you because he knows you want to be thought of as beautiful,_ she told herself vehemently, and yet her heart was beginning to pound. She could not stop her gaze from darting from Tom's lovely dark eyes to his smooth, pale lips, then back again.

"Flattery will get you nowhere," she finally said. "I know what I look like and I know how people really are: they're just interested because I'm something new to look at."

Tom straightened as he gave a short laugh.

"Well, it's not exactly flattery: it is true that that's how you caught _my _attention, at least. I am a male in my prime and I think with my…eyes."

He sauntered back to his own workspace, leaving Hermione staring after him in complete surprise.


	9. 9: Bulletproof

Bad Romance

Author's Note: Wow, I can't believe all of the positive responses I got for the last chapter! I really hope you guys like this chapter…now, I'm trying to build more on the romantic aspects and it's really difficult.

Chapter Nine: Bulletproof

Slughorn was quite lucky that Hermione needed him alive in the future, because otherwise he would have died a slow, painful death by her hand. Word had gotten out that Tom had docked extra points from both Gryffindor and Slytherin for finding Alphard alone with Hermione, and while no one seemed to be taking this rumor in stride, Slughorn's reaction was the most infuriating of all.

"He thinks I was jealous of Black for getting you alone," Tom explained in a low voice in Potions class. Slughorn had deemed it necessary that Hermione have a partner in Potions, and who better to pair her with than Tom Riddle?

"You _did _say you were," Hermione reminded him, her general irritation giving her much more cheek than she normally would have had. Augusta's plan to humiliate Hermione by spreading the incident round the school had somewhat backfired, as now instead of everyone thinking Hermione a slut, the story seemed to be that Hermione and Tom were too nervous around each other to admit their feelings. Thus Hermione was reaching for comfort from Alphard, and thus, Tom was reacting jealously. Naturally this did not go over well with either Tom or Alphard's fanbase, and Hermione had been dodging hateful glares and whispering all day.

"You two always seem to get along _so well_," Slughorn pointed out loudly at that moment. "Look at you two, heads bent over a perfect potion. Minds of equal brilliance…"

"He has always liked me," Tom murmured. "I think he's trying to help me win you over."

"Well, that is just absurd-" Hermione began matter-of-factly, dumping her powdered asphodel into the cauldron, but Tom interrupted her.

"Yes, especially since I would say my mind is of far greater brilliance than yours…" he added thoughtfully. Hermione stared at him witheringly and found it hard to stop herself from smirking when he gave her an innocent look, with a barely contained wicked grin just lurking beneath the surface.

"Ha ha," she said sarcastically, but her smirk would not leave her face. Tom sighed loudly as he stirred their potion.

"You know, you have yet to guess my favorite book…" He stared at her pointedly. When class ended, Slughorn wasted no time in rushing to their cauldron and pointing out how they were a perfectly balanced Potions team. At this point he began philosophizing about how much Potion brewing resembled life itself, and Hermione glanced at Tom.

"Hercules?" she whispered. Tom shook his head.

"I never said it was Greek mythology. I only said that that was quite close," he replied after Slughorn had extended an invitation to the pair of them for his next party. "I only confirmed that you were on the right track."

"You're maddening," Hermione grumbled as they packed their things away. "You probably don't even have a favorite book; you just enjoy making me feel like an idiot with all of this guesswork."

"Hm…" Tom tapped his finger to his lips, looking skyward as he pretended to look ponderous. "You know, that's quite a funny idea. I'll have to keep that in mind for next time."

Without considering her actions, and because she had forgotten this was _Voldemort_ she was dealing with, Hermione swung her bag at Tom and it hit him with a resounding _thud. _

"Don't worry, m'boy, everyone knows that it's a good thing when a lady hits you," Slughorn supplied rather unhelpfully with a wink just as they were leaving the classroom. If Tom hadn't gripped her arm and yanked her out of the classroom, she might have actually murdered Slughorn with great pleasure.

* * *

><p>"Bouncing bulb?" Alphard mumbled in a bored tone, absently flicking through the textbook for Herbology.<p>

"Yes, they're dead useful, though a bit of a nuisance to repot," Hermione replied as she finished adding to her diagram of the difference between Flitterblooms and Devil's Snare. Across the table, Alphard had already completed his, though his was considerably messier and less detailed. "Don't you want to make sure you get the top score on it?" she asked in an exasperated tone.

"Second or third best is fine too," Alphard said with a cheeky grin that Hermione found adorable. "Besides, being friends with you is kind of like getting the top score, right? It's grading by association."

They were sitting together in the library; if not for the fact that this librarian seemed more interested by her sherry bottles than the noise level, they would never have been able to carry on a conversation like this. As it were, they were having quite an enjoyable time, chatting amiably as they completed their Herbology homework. Even if Alphard was not exactly a workaholic, Hermione could tell he too had quite the keen mind. "At least I'm better than my brother. Cygnus is already beating up the nerdy kids for their homework and he's only a third year," Alphard pointed out. Hermione fought back a shudder; she was quite sure that, since Alphard's sister Walburga had been Sirius' mother, Cygnus had to be Bellatrix and Narcissa's father. Anyone who had given birth to a monster like Bellatrix couldn't be good, and Alphard had just confirmed that idea. More disturbing was the note of pride in Alphard's voice buried deep under his disdain.

"That's terrible," Hermione spat as she scrawled her name atop her parchment. "You should try to put a stop to it."

"Why in Merlin's name would I do that? I don't want him to start beating _me _up, do I?"

Hermione decided it was not worth arguing, but she could faintly see the Slytherin part of Alphard coming out and it bothered her.

"No, I suppose not," she sighed. "Do you have any other siblings?"

"Yeah, Wally, though never let her catch you calling her that or she'll hex you…Of course it's not like her hexes are particularly threatening. She's a right old bitch, and she's already engaged to our second cousin Orion." Alphard was scratching his initials into the table with his quill, and Hermione fought against the urge to stop him. "Bit weird that they both are Blacks, but my mum says it's important to only marry Purebloods…"

"But _you _don't really believe that, do you?" Hermione asked earnestly. Alphard shrugged.

"Dunno. Never really thought about it. Not an issue yet, is it? Though I suppose girls start thinking about who they'll marry before they can even walk."

"Not me, honestly. Marriage seems terrifying." It was the truth, but even more scary than marriage itself was the possibility that she might not end up married to Ron. She thought of Ron's blue eyes and her heart contracted painfully. Alphard was studying her closely.

"You're unusual," he said slowly. "Very unusual." he paused and chucked her on the chin. "But I like it. A lot."

* * *

><p>Even though it was truly exhilarating to be in so many classes with someone with whom she was entirely intellectually matched, Hermione lived for her nights. She was gaining a new understanding of Harry as she roamed the grounds at night, within the security and freedom of the Invisibility Cloak. These small, calculated risks made her more brave, and soon her thirst for adventure was comparable to Harry's. She'd already come to wander quite far into the Forbidden Forest, several times narrowly missing an encounter with Aragog, and she was beginning to map out Hogsmeade with the intention of adding a page to the Marauder's Map.<p>

Learning from past mistakes, she did not again go inside the Hog's Head, but instead every now and then peered inside. She saw Alphard in there a few times, laughing with more presumable Death Eaters, and her notion of his kindness and popularity conflicted with the fact that he seemed to be in Tom's inner circle. It was difficult to reconcile the sweet boy who had taken her hand and shown her the inside structure of the Quidditch stands with someone who was attempting to coax Fenrir Greyback, who was at this point newly inducted into the world of lycanthropy, to joining the Death Eaters.

One night, Hermione was wandering the upper floors, but she had become too confident for her own good. She had taken off the cloak, convinced no one would approach the seventh floor for a while, and had been examining the paintings with mild interest. Engrossed in a particularly violent depiction of an execution, Hermione did not notice the clacking of dress shoes on the stone floor approaching until it was too late.

"Who's there?" Tom's smooth baritone broke the silence of the hall. Gasping, Hermione ducked behind a suit of armor. She feared pulling out the Cloak would make too much noise, so she remained partially hidden, holding her breath as Tom slowly walked along the corridor. As he walked, he slid in and out of the panes of silvery moonlight streaming in through the pointed arch windows with serpentine grace. The moonlight highlighted his high cheekbones and gleaming hair in a way that was more artful than any of the paintings in this corridor. He turned, his robes swirling impressively around him in a way that did not occur for anyone else in the standard-issue black robes, and Hermione saw his pianist's hand clutching the yew wand. Watching him simply walk was truly captivating; Hermione momentarily forgot she was supposed to be hiding from him and stared openly.

How had Tom Riddle, probably one of the most beautiful men in the world, become Lord Voldemort, the most repulsive man in the world? "Hermione, why are you here?"

_How _did he know it was her?

Hermione inched to the side, preparing to slide further behind the suit of armor, but quite suddenly, Tom fired a curse at her.

"_Protego!_" Hermione blurted, the curse bouncing off the magical shield. Tom's eyes gleamed with an ugly, raw triumph.

"I _knew_ it!" he hissed. "You've been wandering the halls since the first day of school," he accused, stepping forward. He raised his wand, the motion reminiscent of how he had raised his wand to murder Harry in the future, and once again imitating Harry, Hermione cried out his favorite spell.

"_Expelliarmus!"_ The yew wand went flying; Tom's face contorted in honest surprise as he hastily reached back and caught it before it hit the ground.

"So you _can_ duel a bit," he commented with great interest. Hermione couldn't stop herself from scoffing.

"Not one of my strengths, I'll admit…but I might know a thing or two," she replied, brandishing her wand. Tom quirked an eyebrow in that irresistibly sexy manner of his.

"Let's see how much you _really_ know…_Flipendo!"_ Hermione barely dodged the spell in time.

"_Levicorpus!_" she said reluctantly; she wasn't proud of using Snape's spell, though it had been the first thing to come to mind. Tom cast _Protego_ before it got anywhere near him; his movements were almost _lazy._ The strength of his _protego_ was such that her spell was rebounded and Hermione, humiliatingly, found herself hanging upside down in the air.

"The pink suits you," he said with great amusement, his dark eyes roving over her. This enraged and further humiliated Hermione. And an angry Hermione was not something to be taken lightly.

"_Finite Incantatem,_" she grumbled, landing a bit clumsily on the ground. "_Avifors! Oppugno!" _Tiny yellow birds flew out of her wand, and, recalling how she had used this spell on Ron, set the birds to peck angrily at Tom. He held his hands over his face, laughing.

"How creative, Hermione," he congratulated, his laughter echoing across the hall. "_Incendio."_ Somehow, the sight of the little yellow birds bursting into flame was painful to watch and Hermione looked away, disgusted.

"_Furnunculus,_" she said, imagining with glee how Tom's fangirls would react to find their heartthrob covered in ugly boils. Sadly, Tom dodged the spell. Immediately, Hermione added, "_Conjunctivitis." _Tom didn't dodge this one and cried out in surprise, pressing his hand to his eyes in pain.

"_Serpentsortia,_" he hissed, still wincing in pain. Hermione's breath caught; she had not thought he would be quite _this_ vicious, though who had she been kidding? The unfortunate answer was: no one but herself. The serpent slithered out of the yew wand and began coiling and slithering its way towards Hermione.

"_Reducto!" _she cried, but the spell had no effect on the snake. It slithered up her leg as Tom hissed at it in Parseltongue, his eyes finally free of the Conjunctivitis spell. The serpent coiled itself round her torso, pinning her arms to her sides. Hermione's wand clattered to the floor and Hermione backed up against the wall, trying her hardest to not whimper in pain as the snake tightened its hold, crushing the breath out of her lungs. Tom strode to her and braced one hand on the wall next to her head. Hermione's heart was beating impossibly fast and she was disgusted by the fact that all she could think was that the way he spoke Parseltongue was sensuous and fluent…like it was his first and only language.

"Your perfume, Hermione," he said dryly, reaching up and fingering a lock of her hair. "That's how I knew it was you all these times."

"You've memorized the scent I wear? Creepy," she managed to gasp out. Tom chuckled rather darkly as he tucked the lock of hair behind her ear, his fingers making contact with the shell of her ear. The contact sent a shiver down her spine.

"Beasts track their prey by scent," he said innocently. Hermione returned his gaze with all the bravery she could muster.

"Predators attract their prey with something that will lure them," she retorted hotly, though her voice was still raspy from the serpent's hold. Tom raised an eyebrow again.

"You think you have the upper hand, do you?" he sounded genuinely interested. Hermione managed to smirk, though she was becoming dizzy from lack of air.

"Yes." she kicked out and snatched his wand. "Finite Incantatem!" The snake vanished and Hermione took in great gulping breaths of wonderful oxygen and pointed the yew wand at Riddle's chest.

"Very nice, Hermione. You're talented after all," he admitted. "Though you're still a bit slow to cast spells."

"And you talk too much," she grumbled, picking up her wand while still pointing Tom's at his chest. "And if you try to give me detention or take points from Gryffindor, I'll hex the pants off you."

Tom gave a wicked grin and reached up to take his wand from her.

"Oh, but detention would be _so fun…_especially if you did indeed hex the pants off me," he said with a smirk. Hermione narrowed her eyes at him.

"Come off it, Riddle," she snapped. "I just wander the castle at night because I'm…" she stopped, somehow unwilling to admit to Tom that she was lonely.

"You're…?" he prompted. "Go on."

"Bored," she finished flatly. "Just so you know, I plan to never wear that perfume ever again." She turned and began walking away; Tom caught up with his long legs and walked beside her. She was aware of their height difference, of how elegantly he loped along next to her childlike trot.

"That's a shame, I quite liked it," he sniffed as they walked. Hermione scoffed.

"You just liked it because you could use it to track me."

"That was one of the added benefits, yes," he replied thoughtfully. "Now run along back to your bed; Black's on patrols tonight as well and if _he _catches you out of bed he might be more likely to _punish_ you." The insinuating tone of his voice was rather infuriating and brought a flush to Hermione's cheeks.

"Alphard is a nice guy," Hermione maintained. They were nearing Gryffindor tower now.

"Still, we Slytherins have a more exciting definition of lovemaking, I believe."

Hermione thought her head might have exploded on the spot. Tom was grinning cheekily at her.

"You're having so much fun teasing me."

"And you're having so much fun getting angry at me," Tom rebuked as they stopped in front of the Fat Lady, who had the nerve to sigh dreamily at the sight of Tom.

"Well…perhaps," Hermione admitted, returning Tom's grin. It faded into a scowl with what she said next: "Though if you _ever_ laugh at my panties again, I'm using an Unforgivable on you."

"It was your curse, simply rebounded," Tom said airily, looking quite innocently down at her. "Though with much more pleasing results on you than on me, I must admit. I was certainly not laughing, at any rate: pink really does suit you, though the lace-oof!" Hermione thwacked him over the head with her wand.

"I cannot _believe _you." She turned to the Fat Lady. "Do I really have to say the password? This idiot might try to invade the Gryffindor tower if he learns what it is."

"I would _never,_" Tom insisted, sounding wounded. The Fat Lady sighed before swinging open reluctantly, mumbling something about a 'lady's honor.' "Good night, Hermione. Sweet dreams," he said with a devilish wink. Hermione stood frozen mid-climb and stared after him as he strode back down the hall.

"Don't know why you wouldn't want _him _in the tower," said the Fat Lady in a surly voice. "_I _wouldn't kick him out of bed for all the gold in the world."

Hermione would never say it out loud, but as she climbed the stairs up to her bed, she thought that, perhaps, the Fat Lady sort of had a point.


	10. 10: Art of War

Bad Romance

Author's Note: A lot of you have been asking for a chapter on Tom's POV. Well, this is partially in his POV; it's also in Hermione's and Alphard's as well. I'm really hesitant about this chapter because I am afraid I have not mastered writing from Tom or Alphard's POV, so PLEASE let me know how I did. Even if you'd rather not review for wahtever reason, I'd really appreciate a PM or email. I'm really eager to know whether I succeeded or not!

Chapter Ten: Art of War

The Hog's Head was dimly lit and smoky as usual; it was the ideal meeting place for people who did not want to be overheard. Tom held his head high and wove through the clumps of people to the very back, where his most faithful followers sat huddled round a table, drinking butterbeers and looking annoyingly cheerful. Alphard spotted him first and sat up so he could nod discretely to Tom. Avery, Lestrange, and Malfoy each turned and saw him, and all of the young men stood and bowed as Tom reached their table.

"We were beginning to worry, my lord," said Romulus Lestrange in a low voice, accepting Tom's traveling cloak as Tom shrugged it off.

"Held up," he said shortly. "Patrols was eventful this evening. At any rate…" he sat down at the head of the table, with Alphard on his right and Romulus on his left. Marcus Avery and Abraxas Malfoy were at the opposite end of the table, and when Tom looked at Abraxas, the blond young man hastily sprang out of his chair and ran to the barman to get Tom his own drink. "Progress?"

"Not good," replied Marcus grimly. "Greyback isn't receptive, and what with all of the bullying lately, Dumbledore won't leave us alone."

Tom was not pleased. He was tired, after so many nights with so little sleep, and frustrated with the lack of progress they had been making lately. His mind idly drifted to his duel from earlier, and without being able to quite stop himself, Tom let his lips curve into a grin. At least _that_ had been entertaining, in stark contrast to the abrupt halt in the forwarding of his quest.

"At Sluggie's party, we'll corner Crabbe?" Alphard always had the best ideas, and was probably the most valuable of Tom's 'knights.' And yet somehow, Tom felt he was the least trustworthy. Alphard's Patronus was a monkey, which spoke for much of his personality: mischievous, clever, and perhaps a bit tricky and manipulative.

"And do what? Crabbe is as dull as Merrythought," said Avery sulkily. "No point in having an idiot on our side."

"He's big and intimidating," Alphard shot back with raised eyebrows, daring Avery to argue with him. Tom sighed loudly.

"Calm yourselves. Crabbe might be a useful addition-corner him anyway and see what happens," he said with a blase wave of his hand. The triumphant smirk Alphard shot Marcus did not go unnoticed by Tom. Abraxas returned then with glasses of Firewhiskey for all. Abraxas was a slippery fellow, but his wallet was as useful as Alphard's brain, and soon they were all toasting to Tom's brilliance and nobility.

"It's too bad that Macmillan girl is a Gryffindor. She's quite the brainiac…I bet she'd be good to have on our side. And, not too bad on the eyes, either," said Avery after their bellies were warmed by the firewhiskey. Tom glanced at Alphard to check his reaction; predictably, Alphard's brown eyes were flashing with dislike for Avery and Tom smirked into his drink. Privately, he quite agreed with Marcus, but he held back from speaking. He was interested to see how this discussion would go between Alphard and Marcus, so he watched in silent patience.

"She's too pure and sweet. Go near her and I'll-"

"You'll what, Black? Go on," Avery taunted. Alphard seemed to recall that they had drawn the attention away from Tom and pressed his lips together, his dislike for Avery quite apparent, and turned to Tom.

"My lord, I request that we leave the Gryffindor girl out of any plans," he said flatly. Tom smirked at him, fingering the yew wand. Alphard's eyes flickered to Tom's wand and back to his face again, and he bowed slightly.

"This matter is of no consequence," he replied, his voice hardening. "You all have failed me; we have made no useful allies and Dumbledore continues to keep an annoyingly close watch on us."

All of his Knights jumped out of their seats and kowtowed on the floor before him; Tom sighed and finished his drink. "You are forgiven this time. But unless we have made some progress soon, I will not retain such kindness."

How he enjoyed holding court over some of the most ambitious and talented young wizards at Hogwarts. They were all pureblood, traceable back to before the time of the great Salaazar Slytherin.

"Next time Greyback resists our invitation, we use force," he said finally. "And Black, do not forget your winter assignment."

"I haven't, my Lord Voldemort," said Alphard quietly. The young wizards rose to their feet and climbed back in their chairs. The event had gone unnoticed except for by the barman, who was watching them out of the corner of his eye. Tom glowered.

"And we ought to find a new place for our meetings. I don't trust that barman."

"Neither do I," piped up Avery, eager to call Tom's attention back to him. "Perhaps we could simply hold our meetings in the common room?"

"Absolutely not, you prat," spat Alphard. "Do you realize how many portraits there are? And do you really think we can trust all of our House?"

"Excellent thinking, Black," said Tom with a nod. "The common room is out of the question. Any other ideas?"

"The Forbidden Forest is clearly the best place," said Lestrange from the other end of the table. "No one will be watching or listening in there."

"Yes, I agree with Lestrange," said Abraxas, nodding vigorously. Malfoy never had any ideas; he was mostly clinging onto their little group.

"Then it's settled. From now on, we meet in the Forest."

With business taken care of, the meeting dissolved into jokes and antics about their classes and the idiots at Hogwarts. As Marcus and Romulus began doing unrealistic impressions of the moron Hagrid, Alphard surreptitiously turned to Tom.

"My lord," he began hesitantly. Tom sighed and held out his glass for Malfoy to refill.

"Yes?"

"I plan on asking the Gryffindor girl, Hermione Macmillan, to Slughorn's party."

"Why do you bother me with such rubbish, Black?" Tom asked lazily, peering at his wand in the dim lighting. Still, he couldn't completely ignore the spike of irritation towards his most useful follower. Alphard frowned.

"I was under the impression that you…" he trailed off, clearly having lost his confidence. "Well, if it's alright, then…"

"I think I can grant you that much, Black, since you are a most useful Knight," said Tom absently, though inside, he had every urge to use every Unforgiveable on Alphard Black. The only reason he was holding back was that it seemed silly to kill the only useful member of his following over a girl-a Gryffindor girl, no less.

Alphard looked relieved. He apparently had not expected to win this great boon so easily. He bowed his head.

"Thank you, my Lord," he murmured. With his head bowed, he did not see how Tom's hatred boiled over in his expression.

"But if you forget to aid Avery in discussing our mission with Crabbe…" Tom made a point of brandishing his wand. "I do not see any reason to continue to treat you so favorably." Alphard swallowed and blanched at Tom's words, and Tom was slightly cheered by Alphard's fear.

* * *

><p>After Hermione had parted ways with Tom, she lay in bed, holding her wandlight over the Marauder's Map. She watched as the dots labeled 'Tom Riddle', 'Marcus Avery', 'Romulus Lestrange', 'Abraxas Malfoy', and 'Alphard Black' returned to the Great Hall and began moving towards the Slytherin common rooms. Her heart sank. She knew Alphard was in Slytherin, and people were usually placed in the House in which they belonged, and yet she couldn't help but feel that his being in Tom's inner circle didn't make sense.<p>

_He is the uncle that gives Sirius the money to run away in the future, _reasoned Hermione as she watched his dot return to his own dormitory and climb into his bed. _So he's not _evil. _Just…probably wanting to be 'cool'. _

And, as Tom Riddle was considered the epitome of cool, it made sense that he would have a following. It didn't make his followers evil just yet. _No reason to hate Alphard just for wanting to fit in. _

She supposed that the boys had been meeting at the Hog's Head again. _Maybe next time I'll watch for them leaving and listen in on their meeting. _She smirked to herself. It was a very Harry sort of thing to do, and yet, when she thought of it that way, it cemented her decision. From now on, she would watch very carefully to see when the future Death Eaters had their little meetings…and then, unbeknownst to them, she'd join them.

_I'll just have to make sure I don't wear that damned perfume again. _It was with great regret that Hermione discarded the little bottle in the rubbish bin. _Oh well. _The one attempt she'd made at being feminine on a daily basis had backfired in a big way…And yet, as she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, there was something about Tom Riddle tracking her by scent that made her feel warm and fluttery. She thought of how his scent of aftershave, so light and subtle, had clung to her skin even after bathing, and she longed to breathe it in again. She pictured him shaving, probably shirtless, in front of the mirror each morning. It was all too easy to imagine him standing there, a towel most likely wrapped around his slim waist. The other Slytherin seventh years probably would see him and fruitlessly try to emulate the way he shaved each morning.

Hermione, with her keen mind, had always had an overactive imagination, and she found herself able to picture him dressing, his lean arms disappearing in the sleeves of one of his pressed button-up shirts that were part of the uniform. She could picture him tightening the belt around his slacks, tying his tie in front of the mirror effortlessly. Using pomade in hair was fashionable for young men at this time, and she could see him absently rubbing it through his dark wavy locks, pushing it to the side so that it was perfectly between neat and untidy, that carelessly polished look that was nearly impossible to attain if one was not born with it.

And _then…_ at the end of the day, did he shower? Or did he only shower in the morning? She pictured him wearily yanking his tie loose, unbuttoning his shirt and frowning in thought. _Probably coming up with evil schemes as he hangs up his robes, _Hermione thought with an unsteady grin. She knew she shouldn't have been thinking these thoughts, and yet, knowing this made it all the more impossible to stop them from entering her mind.

Did he sleep in pajamas, or just pajama bottoms? Did he sleep on his side or stomach? She recalled seeing Harry, who vaguely resembled Tom, just before he had awoken one morning during their Horcrux hunt. He'd been sleeping on his stomach, his face half-buried in his pillow, his arm hanging languidly off the bed at what might have been an uncomfortable angle had he been awake. Did Tom sleep that way? Ron always hugged his pillow and muttered to himself in his sleep; somehow Hermione could not picture the young Voldemort sleeping in such a way.

_Or perhaps, he doesn't sleep at all…_and yet, she checked the Map and found Tom Riddle's dot in his suite in the Slytherin dorms. The Head Boy and Head Girl each had their own separate rooms, of course. His dot remained in the same spot for quite awhile. He was most likely either asleep or reading.

Picturing Tom undressing had left her feeling strangely overheated and unable to let herself fall back to sleep. Hermione tossed and turned for hours, wondering why it was not Ron or Alphard that she was thinking of like this. Deep down, she knew that she wouldn't have liked to know the answer.

* * *

><p>Alphard lay awake, listening to the snores of his classmates and the creaking of the castle at night. He wanted to celebrate that Tom was letting him ask Hermione to Slughorn's party, and yet, he could not fend off the sense of foreboding he had about the whole thing. When Tom found out what someone wanted, he did not hesitate to use it against them, and Alphard wondered how his attraction for the mysterious new Gryffindor girl would end up for him.<p>

Still, he couldn't fight the grin that spread across his face as he recalled how Hermione had looked, concentrating on her diagram of the Flitterbloom. She was probably the cutest witch at Hogwarts…No, not probably. _Definitely. _She was smart and sassy, and yet had a timid and bashful side. Buried beneath that was an inextinguishable fire and a depth of emotion that Alphard had never seen before. Hermione had been _through _something; she was scarred and traumatized and quite intent on hiding it and appearing lighthearted and innocent.

The only problem was that she and Tom Riddle had tension so thick that it did not go unnoticed by anyone. Even though he sensed that Hermione returned his interest at least partially, he also sensed that, if pressured enough, Tom Riddle would easily capture her heart.

_Because Tom Riddle gets whatever the hell he wants, _Alphard thought resentfully as he rested the back of his head on his hands and stared at the ceiling. He had wanted to Hex both Augusta and Tom for interrupting his private moment with the Gryffindor girl; beneath the stands he thought he'd finally found the opportunity to push their tentative flirting a little further. He'd spotted Hermione on the first day of school and thought her to be entirely captivating, and seeing her staring in awe up at the structure of the Quidditch stands had made his heart beat a little faster.

The way her lips had parted in surprise, how cool and dry her petite hand had been in his own larger hand, how soft the skin on her exposed collarbone had looked when she'd raised her head to stare upwards…Her slim, delicate-looking legs and how they looked in the pleated skirt and knee socks of the Hogwarts uniform….Unlike the other girls, Hermione did not shorten her skirt, and to Alphard, that made her all the more attractive.

He was filled with desire, desire to capture the very witch that did _not_ wish to be captured by anyone. And the most conflicting part of all was the fact that he had seen this exact same fervent desire mirrored in Riddle's eyes every time those dark eyes cast their gaze upon the Gryffindor witch.


	11. 11: Rabbit in Your Headlights

Bad Romance

Author's Note: Meh. I'm feeling really insecure about this story now. Hence why I took an extra day to update. I'm trying to up the level of romance but I don't want to rush things; they have to be believable. It's tough because I think we all have different conceptions of Alphard Black: I see him as clever and, deep down kind, but only choosing to be so when it suits him. Like he's not evil, but Slytherin is definitely the right house for him. I dunno. What are your thoughts?

Chapter Eleven: Rabbit in Your Headlights

Having made a rough timeline of when each Horcrux was acquired and then created, Hermione was beginning to feel a little more in control of her situation. After all, she felt that taking _calculated_ risks instead of just being a prat was the key to success for her mission. Unfortunately, there were a lot of gaps in her Horcrux timeline, and she had determined that she'd use this year-Voldemort's last year at Hogwarts-as the year of filling in said gaps.

Her first quest was to find out when Voldemort had learned where the Grey Lady had hidden her mother's diadem. She knew he had created this Horcrux sometime before the age of thirty, because he had returned to Hogwarts around that time to ask Dumbledore for a job as well as hide the diadem.

It was strange to think that while Tom Riddle was busy being everybody's beloved Head Boy, he was also busy planning and creating his Horcruxes. There seemed to simply be too few hours in the day for Horcrux-making. _He's already made the ring into a Horcrux, _she recalled as she pictured the simple black stone on his elegant hand. _He's killed Tom Riddle Sr and framed Morfin already. _

It was at times like this one where Hermione was horrified that she could ever become flustered or flattered by Tom Riddle. She pictured him using the Unforgiveable curse on his own father, coldly staring down at his dead body, and she could not stop shuddering. This Tom Riddle, this beautiful, charming, seventeen year old young man, was already entirely immersed in his sick and twisted plan to live forever. The monster that hid behind that angelic face would not emerge for another twenty years at least, and within that time, he would be busy garnering more and more followers, changing the landscape of the wizarding world forever.

Sometimes, she wished she could simply go back and try to help that innocent little boy that Riddle must have been, though deep down she knew Riddle had been born _bad_: Dumbledore himself had said he had seen no true feelings of goodness or remorse present even in eleven year old Riddle.

But if that were true, when had the horror within Riddle become set in motion? Where did Tom Riddle end and Lord Voldemort begin?

It was unknowable. Hermione sometimes wished to delve deep into Tom's psyche and uncover what lay hidden beneath, and yet, she knew she would not be able to handle what she might find. Harry had said that, from seeing some of the memories Dumbledore had provided, he was convinced that Riddle was evil to his very core. Some might say that he had made a descent into the Dark Arts, but Harry contended that this was wishful thinking. Tom Riddle was something born of the Dark Arts himself: his father had been bewitched in some way (whether under the Imperius Curse or by Amortentia) to love his mother, and his mother was a direct descendent of Slytherin as well as the product of generations of unhindered inbreeding.

If she knew all of these things, why was she becoming more and more intrigued by Tom Riddle? In this mission to save her own time and friends, she could feel herself about to set off on a path downward into the depths of a soul that was purely evil. Like the Forbidden Forest, what Hermione had once feared and put every effort into steering clear of, she was now unbearably tempted by. Thus the serpent tempted Eve to take a bite of the apple, and thus Eve was forever sinful. Hermione was ashamed of her sick interest in Riddle, but Harry too had expressed the same feeling, which made things slightly better.

'_He's like a horror film. You just can't stop watching him…I'm always disappointed when the memory ends,_' she recalled Harry saying one night after a particularly grueling session with Dumbledore. At the time, she had attributed it to Harry's strange and somewhat perverse relationship with Dark Magic-after all, his survival was the direct intersection of pure Love and an Unforgivable curse-but now she understood what he meant. Perhaps it was because of the knowledge of what lurked beneath the surface, but Hermione found herself drawn to Tom Riddle in a way that she did not know how to fight against.

Deciding that any understanding of Tom Riddle could not hurt her mission (indeed it could only help it) Hermione planned to visit some of the sites most important to Riddle over the Christmas holiday. She would visit the village of Little Hangleton, the orphanage that Tom had grown up in, and the Gaunt house outside of Little Hangleton, as well as any other places she happened to learn about before then.

Hermione also realized that by now, Riddle had to be a fairly skilled Legilimens. With that in mind, another task came to her naturally: to learn Occlumency. It was the only way to successfully delve into the future Dark Lord's mind, and the only way to save herself from being exposed.

It was this task that led Hermione to the library the next morning, though had she known what would occur ahead of time, she would have stayed in bed a little longer. Hermione rose early, when dawn was just beginning to streak the sky with pink and purple, and went to the library. Her intention was to make sure she avoided all other students (and perhaps gain access to the Restricted section without needing a note) and when she first arrived, the library seemed quite empty. Relieved that finally something was working out the way she had planned, Hermione began scanning the shelves for any texts on Occlumency or Legilimency. Finally she spotted a series of books that looked promising and crouched down, running her index finger down each spine as she searched.

That tantalizing, musky but fresh, scent filled her nose and by the time she had registered what it was, Tom Riddle's shadow had passed over her already.

"You're up early….especially after the workout I gave you last night," Tom greeted with a devilish wink. Hermione's face flushed and she glowered up at him.

"Ha ha," she said shortly. Tom pretended to be looking at the shelf above her, but she saw his dark eyes travel downward to inspect what books she had in her hand. Hermione stood up, surreptitiously covering the spine of the book with her hand. "It was hardly taxing, if you must know the truth," she parried, already turning to leave. Tom lazily reached his arm out, barring her path.

"Really?" he quirked an elegant eyebrow. "But you _did _lose."

"Not necessarily. And I wonder; does the whole school know you're a Parselmouth?" Hermione asked in a feigned playful tone, and pushed at his lean chest with her hands. Tom's eyes flashed angrily, but he maintained his cordial and light tone.

"Not if you can't get past me, dear Hermione." He got a glimpse of her book. "And for someone whose dueling skills leave _so much_ to be desired, you'd think you'd be focusing on that rather than an advanced technique such as Occlumency. Got secrets you need to keep?" he was baiting her, but Hermione had resolved she was going to stop acting like a silly little girl and act more like herself: cool, logical, unflusterable Hermione Granger. She continued to push against him, and yet, he pushed back with his torso. He kept trying to make eye contact with her, and Hermione realized he was effectively pushing her back down the aisle, towards the window. Soon she'd be cornered.

Her back against the chilly windowpane, Hermione shivered and pointedly looked down at her shoes. "Naughty girl. It's bad to keep secrets," he teased, reaching out his right hand to slide the book from her grasp. His breath was warm on her cheek and the hairs on the back of her neck were raised in fear and something perhaps a little darker. "Afraid I'll read your mind and find out how hopelessly attracted you are to me? Because if that's the case, you needn't bother. It's written all over your face."

"Wouldn't you like that?" she bit back harshly. "Unfortunately, you seem to have found the only girl who _isn't _hopelessly in love with you. Now, if you'll excuse me-" she paused and held out her hand, making eye-contact with Riddle for the first time. "Please give me back my book." Riddle smirked.

"It's not your book. It's the library's book," he retorted simply. "And for slipping into the Restricted section, I'm going to have to punish you."

Despite the warm fluttery sensation in the pit of her stomach, Hermione made a great show of rolling her eyes.

"Will you _stop_ with the sexual innuendo? It's not clever and I'm not amused."

They stared at each other, with Riddle's grin broadening. Hermione was nearly mesmerized by the way his smooth, pale lips parted and revealed straight white teeth. Did he have _any_ physical flaws?

"Oh, I wasn't kidding, Macmillan. Getting caught in the Restricted section is worth several detentions." Tom paused and cocked his head to the side slightly, as if in thought. "That is, unless you have a note from a professor…" he raised his eyebrows as if seriously expecting her to produce one and Hermione let out a growl of frustration.

"You are _so _not giving me detention, Riddle. You were in the Restricted section too!"

"I _so _am giving you detention, Hermione." His grin was wicked, his eyes twinkled with the pleasure of having pulled the wool over her eyes. "I'll let you know when I've conjured up a suitable one for such a serious offense."

"Fine, you…" she sputtered as she tried to come up with a nickname for him. "Prince of Suffering! Lord of Annoyance!" Throwing her hands up in the air, she stalked past Tom, completely and entirely infuriated.

"I rather like the first one, actually," Tom commented as he followed Hermione. Before she could return to her bag, however, he had grabbed her by the scruff of her robe and yanked her back behind a shelf. Hermione let out a yelp of surprise, thankful that the librarian was not here yet, and stumbled backwards into his arms. Tom chuckled darkly and held her in place. Leaning down, his lips a hair's breadth from her ear, Tom spoke in a whisper: "you're so cute when you're all angry."

That was the last straw. Enraged and perhaps a little pleased, Hermione brought her foot down on his instep, earning a curse from Tom as she stepped forward. Her hair was wild, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright, and she was a tad out of breath. Tom followed her in a similar condition, which was why it was quite unfortunate that the person who happened to have just entered the library at that moment was a quite stunned Alphard.

* * *

><p>"I thought you said you <em>didn't<em> like him, then you're snogging him in the library?" Alphard's hiss was entirely too audible for Hermione; she glowered as she drew a line on her diagram of a Bouncing Bulb so hard that the parchment ripped loudly. Across the table, Tom seemed thoroughly engrossed in his own diagram, though the faintest hint of a triumphant smirk was gracing his lips.

"I _wasn't_ snogging him, you prat," she snapped back at the Slytherin Seeker. "I went to the library to find a book on Occlumency, and Riddle found me there and not only decided to give me detention, but also tried to restrain me from causing him bodily harm." It was, in fact, the complete truth, but even Hermione knew that there was, inescapably, an undertone of pursuit that sat as well with her as it seemed to be sitting with Alphard: in other words, not well at all. Alphard shot her a tentative, searching look, and Hermione sighed. She knew she shouldn't have said what she said next, for it was cornering Alphard figuratively, but the words were out before she could stop herself: "Besides, what's it to you, anyway?"

Alphard did not respond for the rest of Herbology, and inwardly, Hermione writhed with guilt. She was treating him exactly the same way she had treated Ron. Alphard's interest in her was no mystery to anyone; the fangirls had gotten worse lately and now on top of the whispering and evil eyes, Hermione was beginning to dodge Hexes. Of course, that was nothing compared to _Tom's_ fangirls, but never mind that.

Finally, Herbology ended and Hermione packed up her stuff, resigning herself to the fact that now she and Alphard were no longer speaking. Therefore she was quite surprised when his strong hand gripped her forearm.

"Come with me," he murmured, and as Hermione followed him behind the greenhouses, she marveled at the fact that Alphard was always pulling her away from things. They faced each other. It was misting gently; Alphard's black locks clung to his face attractively in the rain and his dark lashes stuck together. He absently wiped a dripping lock out of his eye. "Er…look," he began awkwardly, shuffling his feet a bit. "I think you're a very interesting girl. You're not like any of the other girls here, see…" he paused, rubbing the back of his neck and looking down. "I've never been nervous round a girl before, to be honest. I suppose that doesn't sound too good, does it?" He wrinkled his nose and Hermione found herself giggling at his facial expression. Then they were smiling at each other, and it reminded her of that awkward peace that she had found when being held by Ron.

"Well, not really," she agreed, though her voice was kind. Alphard's lips twisted into an unsure half-smile.

"Will you go with me to Slughorn's party this Saturday?" his voice was soft, gentle, nervous. Hermione was surprised that someone with Alphard's natural self-assurance could ever be uncertain about anything, and yet, she was proven right: just as her mouth began to form the word 'yes,' he tilted his head and brought his lips to her cheek in the softest brush of a kiss. His lips were wet and cold against her skin because of the rain. "Sorry," he muttered. "But I couldn't help myself."

Hermione simply blushed and looked down. No need to ruin the mood with her explanation of why she could not take this thing between them further.

"I'd love to go with you," she replied simply. There was a flash of unease in Alphard's eyes, but then it was gone, and they were left to grin at each other stupidly until Hermione abruptly remembered that they were going to get detention for showing up to their next class so late.

In Muggle Studies, Hermione was glad for the distraction. Feelings about Alphard's kiss were conflicting with her love for Ron, and despite the fact that really, he had simply kissed her on the cheek, Hermione was terrified of encouraging him. She felt guilty for enjoying Alphard's attention. She reminded herself of how Cho's unwillingness to let go of Cedric had ruined her chances with Harry, and yet, Hermione couldn't help but feel that this was different. Ron was dead, but not permanently…if she succeeded, of course.

She was also scared that, even without her guilt about Ron, things were progressing too fast with Alphard. It had been even faster with Krum, but Krum had been less than clever and Hermione attributed their somewhat physical relationship to his brainpower. Alphard, on the other hand, was as clever as a girl could hope for.

_He's just so used to having his way with girls, probably. He even said it himself, _she pondered as she took down notes. Alphard had little fear of rejection, and thus, for him there was no point in taking things slow. But Hermione was still stinging from the loss of Ron, and even though she felt that perhaps she ought to enjoy herself a little in the next fifty years, she wasn't ready to forget Ron just yet.

Above all was the fact that receiving a kiss from Alphard made her happy. Her cheeks were flushed with pleasure at having been kissed by a handsome boy, as well as the excitement of attending a Slug Club party with, for once, someone she actually liked.

All of this drama made her feel weary, however, and when Hermione entered Defense Against the Dark Arts and saw Riddle's arm draped casually over the back of her chair, his other hand writing the date atop his parchment in his elegant script, Hermione felt exhausted. For beyond her complicated emotions regarding Alphard and Ron was the fact that she found Riddle more intriguing and more tempting than anything else in the world.


	12. 12: Burning For You

Bad Romance

Author's Note: it's always nice to see these author's notes taking up part of the screen. For me it is, anyway. This chapter is jam-packed with plot so I hope you guys like it :)

And, as usual, thanks for all the amazing reviews :)

Chapter Twelve: Burning For You

"You look cheerful," Tom greeted with a sly, shrewd grin as Hermione slid into her usual seat. She batted his arm from the back of her chair, and she wondered if that would make her gain or lose points in the eyes of the fangirls. "I wonder if it's because you're looking forward to detentions and being alone with me?"

"Actually, I happen to be looking forward to some alone time with a _real _gentleman," Hermione shot back smugly. She had expected Tom to look surprised, but instead he merely rolled his eyes.

"How romantic. Black asked you to the Slug Club party, did he?" Tom drawled. Hermione froze. How had he known that? He couldn't have _possibly _been looking into her mind… They hadn't even made eye contact for long enough. _Calm down. They're friends, remember? _she told herself.

"Yes, actually," Hermione said primly as she set up for class. Tom smirked and leaned forward on his elbows. The look of the black cloth of his robes draping over his angular body reminded Hermione of a panther or jaguar. Even though the position was one of relaxation, Hermione got the sense he was preparing to pounce.

"He asked me if it were alright to ask you. Seems like even he thinks we're together," Tom said under his breath. Merrythought was beginning to call attention to the class, but Tom disregarded her entirely. With his impossibly dark eyes trained on her, so obviously lingering on her lips, Hermione felt naked.

"Go toy with some other girl, Riddle," she hissed crossly, making a point of looking towards the front of the classroom. Hopefully looking away would hide her blush. "I'm not interested."

"It's funny: the more forward I become, the more you pull away. Does Black know you enjoy playing hard-to-get, Hermione? And are you aware of Black's dating habits? You might not enjoy his pacing if you're such a nun."

Hermione did not outwardly give any reaction to his words.

"You're acting jealous again," she parried smoothly under her breath. "And once again: I'm _not_ interested. But I'm sure you can find another girl. Augusta is all but begging for it." It was not like Hermione to bring another girl into an argument like this-female solidarity, and all-but she was beginning to feel desperate. Tom merely chuckled.

"Augusta already _got it…_from Black, not from me. I think if you really like him, you ought to hang on a little more tightly. Because if he can't get anything from you, he'll just move on to the next girl. For him, girls are like taxis: there's always another one coming down the road, begging to be ridden."

"You're disgusting," Hermione hissed. Merrythought was lecturing on Lycanthropy so intently that she did not notice Hermione and Tom's whispered conversation, but Hermione wished the elderly witch would, just so she could stop hearing these disgusting things from Riddle. "And we're simply going to Slughorn's party together. That's it," she added flatly.

"Of course it is," Tom said mildly. "Black has absolutely no motivation to see what mysteries you're hiding underneath those baggy robes, and all he wants to do is have a partner to the Slug Club party."

Hermione momentarily daydreamed about what it would be like if Harry and Ron were here to defend her. She fought back a smirk imagining the fun Harry would have, especially with the Invisibility Cloak and a few of the Half-Blood Prince's crueler charms and hexes. Recalling her plan to spy on Riddle and his cronies, she sat up a little straight and smiled right into Riddle's eyes. He looked a little taken aback by her lack of reaction to his filthy insinuation.

"I'm sure he does want to get a look at my… 'Department of Mysteries,'" she murmured with a sly grin, enjoying the pun she had made, "And you know what? If he's good, he might just get a look. Unlike you."

With that prissy comeback, Hermione grinned through the rest of the class and stoutly ignored Riddle, who could not seem to take his eyes off of her in his complete and utter shock.

_Finally, _she thought smugly, _Riddle: zero, Hermione: one billion._

* * *

><p>Even though Hermione felt she had bested Riddle in their verbal duel in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Riddle's words still had the desired effect: she was becoming increasingly uneasy about Alphard's slightly promiscuous reputation. Even though they had only known each other roughly a week, he had already attempted to get her alone twice and had already kissed her. She hadn't heard of his reputation before Merrythought's class, but then again, she hardly ever spoke to anyone. What if he <em>did <em>expect some sort of physical compensation for their date to the Slug Club party?

_Well, if he does, he's got another think coming, _Hermione thought primly. She was on her way to Hogsmeade (with permission from Dumbledore) to find some somewhat nicer robes for Slughorn's party. The silvery robes she had gotten for the ball were too dressy for a Slug Club party, and despite still having her beaded bag with her, Hermione had nothing appropriate for such events. Good robes were not exactly necessary for Horcrux hunting, after all.

She knew she would just have to tell him that even though she _did _find him attractive, her heart still belonged to someone else. But she'd have to edit the explanation, seeing as she couldn't really inform him of her time-traveling. _Should I tell him Ron ran away or something?_

Part of her wondered if it was worth it to abstain from any sort of relationship for the next fifty years. As far as she knew, having used the Time-Turner would mean that she would retain her age of eighteen for the amount of time it took to return to the future, but what if that weren't the case for such a long period of time? What if by the time she saw Ron again, she was too old for him?

And if that were the case, wouldn't it make more sense to enjoy what she could for now? Hermione was at a loss. She felt disgusted by herself for succumbing to physical attraction so quickly, and yet, it made her wonder if that meant her feelings for Ron had never actually run as deep as she thought they had. Had he been alive and had they gotten together, did that mean that the next time a guy showed her any interest, she'd drop Ron so quickly anyway?

Guilty, uneasy, and confused, Hermione first stopped at Madam Kilfeather's shop. Explaining what she needed, Madam Kilfeather almost immediately drew out the perfect solution: a set of plain but well-made slightly form-fitting garnet robes. Apparently, as garnet red was a jewel-tone, it suited Hermione's complexion, and when she tried the robes on, she had to agree with Madam Kilfeather's taste. The robes were perfect. The dark red brought out the rosiness in her cheeks and lips. The neckline was a sweetheart neckline, but not too low-cut, and the sleeves were long and fitted. The robes nipped in at the waist and then flared out. The only complaint Hermione had, in fact, was that the robes seemed to be reluctant to stay put on her shoulders, as the edge hit exactly the edge of her shoulders. It put her collarbone on display. According to Madam Kilfeather, however, that was the point of the design, and Hermione ended up purchasing the robes.

Hermione even treated herself to dangling matching garnet earrings, as well as a different perfume only to be worn on special occasions. After that, she stopped by Tingling Spines to seek out a book on Occlumency, but was sad to find none.

On her way back up the path to Hogwarts, Hermione was enjoying the sunshine and even feeling slightly less anxious about Alphard. Surely Riddle was just trying to upset her, and Alphard was so clearly a nice guy that there couldn't have been that much truth to his words. As such, she couldn't resist grinning when she saw Alphard, Abraxas Malfoy, Cygnus Black, and of course, Tom Riddle, playing a pick-up game of what might have been Quidditch, though upon closer inspection seemed to be nothing more than Catch on broomsticks. Alphard and Tom were unsurprisingly the superior flyers. Abraxas was timid and uncoordinated; he was mostly left out of the game. Cygnus was unlike Alphard in every way: even though he was so much younger than Alphard, his frame was much broader and he was even taller, perhaps as tall as Riddle. His black hair was short and spiky and his features more brutish. Still, he too had the trademark dark hair, dark eyes, and dusting of freckles that the other Black family members all seemed to have. His manner of flying was bullish and slower, thus it was easy for Alphard and Tom to swoop away from him.

Hermione was unsure of whether she ought to wave, but Alphard saved her the trouble of worrying and screeched to a halt midair before swooping down and hopping off his broomstick with ease. Cygnus and Malfoy wolf-whistled, and distantly, Hermione registered Tom's sensuous laugh as Alphard grabbed her hand impulsively.

"You're not supposed to be off the Hogwarts grounds," he teased, and wordlessly Hermione held up Dippet's hand-written excuse. "Robes, eh? What did you get?" he playfully snatched the bag with the robes in it from Hermione and she laughed, taking after him to chase him. She was not a fast runner, but Alphard was enjoying staying close and dodging her by a hair's breadth every time she reached out to grab at him.

"Give them back!" Hermione ordered breathlessly, laughing even as she yelled at him. Alphard grinned and shook his head, making to peer inside. But Tom had landed neatly next to him and batted his head.

"Don't you know girls hate it when you find out what they're wearing to a date _before_ the date?" he chided. Hermione was slightly impressed at the power Tom had over his friends; Alphard sighed and immediately handed Hermione's bag back to her.

"I was hoping some of it was from that lingerie shop," he pouted, and as Hermione's face went molten red, Tom burst out into laughter that rang out across the grounds.

"Now now, be a gentleman," Tom said in a light, teasing tone. Hermione prized her gaze from Tom; in the sunlight, laughing, he was captivating. She had no words to describe his captivating handsomeness. No, it wasn't even handsomeness: he was beautiful. Even more so was his beauty heightened by the fact that Hermione could still clearly picture what he would become in fifty years' time. "But I'll be happy to give you an opinion for Alphard if there _is _anything from that shop," Tom added with a wicked grin and a sly wink. Hermione laughed at him, forcing herself to return her eyes to Alphard. Why was it so difficult to look at anything else when Tom was around?

"You both are prats," she said smartly. "I did _not_ get anything from the lingerie shop. All apologies, of course," she continued briskly, and began walking back up to the castle. Plenty of students were outside enjoying the sunshine, and Hermione was sure her exchange with the handsome Slytherins had not gone unnoticed. She heard Tom say something to the others about discussing the terms of Hermione's detention, and then he was striding alongside her. She couldn't stop herself from breathing in his tantalizing scent. It couldn't simply be aftershave, could it? There was a note of something else, of something masculine and uniquely _Tom _underneath that.

_And now you're just acting absurd, _she told herself, mentally smacking herself.

"I've finally decided your detention," he greeted after a moment of them walking in silence. Hermione raised her eyebrows expectantly and they stopped walking, turning to face each other. At this point on the path, they were obscured from the view of others. Despite being outside, in the blustery sunshine, they were completely alone.

"And?"

"Meet me at the entrance of the Great Hall at midnight," he ordered, his voice retaining a playful, insinuating edge to it. "And bring your wand."

"What will I be doing?" Hermione was trying very, very hard to not notice how close Tom was standing to her. He gave her that same wickedly sexy grin.

"You'll find out," he said lightly. "As I'm…" he paused, frowning as though trying to recall information, "…the _Prince of Suffering,_ I may as well not tell you now, lest I lose my proverbial crown."

"Fine," Hermione said. Tom's mouth twitched as he tried to refrain from grinning at her.

"Fine," he agreed.

For a moment they stood there in silence, the breeze toying with their hair and robes slightly. Tom's expression had gone quite serious, and Hermione began to wonder if he were going to confront her about something. He frowned before saying, "are you _sure_ you didn't buy anything from that lingerie shop?"

There was a loud, resounding _thwack_ as Hermione smacked the teenaged Dark Lord with her shopping bag before flouncing off indignantly, leaving Tom to stare after her and rub his jaw with a grin.

* * *

><p>Detention interfered with her plans to follow Tom, but as she was apparently serving detention for him alone, she supposed he wouldn't be having a Death Eater meeting tonight. Hermione wondered if other students were joining them as she left Gryffindor Tower at a quarter to midnight. Along the way to the Great Hall, she ran into Alphard, who was as usual on patrols.<p>

"Detention, eh? Wouldn't have figured you the type," Alphard teased lightly when he saw her coming round the corner. Hermione couldn't fight the grin when she saw Alphard, with his messy dark waves and twinkling brown eyes.

"First time for everything," she explained with a sigh, stopping in front of him. "You don't reckon it will be too bad, do you?"

Alphard shrugged.

"Probably not, since I'm friends with Riddle. Though he _did _dock points that time, so…" he trailed off as they each recalled the moment beneath the stands, and the tension before Augusta and Tom had intruded. Alphard's eyes flickered to Hermione's lips, and her heart began to pound, but he did not move to kiss her. Instead, he reached up and flicked her forehead. "Be careful, Macmillan." His tone was sweet and affectionate, and Hermione found herself grinning even more. She had never had this sort of connection with such a charming young man, and had indeed thought it was something only made up in books, or simply faked, as in the case of Riddle. But no, Alphard was truly charming.

"I promise," Hermione said softly. Now Alphard began to lean in, and Hermione was filled with the pleasant apprehension of anticipating a kiss, but just then, the clock began to chime. Hermione had seconds to get to the Great Hall or she'd be late for detention. "I-I'd better go," she said, Alphard's lips centimeters from hers. Without another word she turned to leave and jogged down the corridor, her blood thumping through her veins. She was unsure of whether she was relieved that the clock had chimed at that moment or not, but there was no time to think on it. Only a minute or two late, she burst into the Great Hall. Riddle pointed at his wristwatch with his wand, arching his brows.

"Late."

Hermione did not feel inclined to apologize and so she simply came to a halt in front of Riddle, awaiting instruction. She noticed he had on his black traveling cloak; he struck a tall, impressive figure in the dim, flickering lighting of the Great Hall. "Tonight, we have a peculiar mission," he began, pushing open the enormous wood and wrought iron doors. They set off into the chilly evening. Hermione had chosen to simply wear her uniform with a grey sweater over top; she fought back a shiver as they trotted through the dewy grass. The moon was full and high in the sky; it cast the grounds in silvery light.

"What are we doing?"

"Confirming a suspicion I have," Tom explained cryptically. "You see, last year I received an award for special services to the school."

Hermione's heart began to pound heavily for different reasons as she waited with bated breath for Tom to continue. "The Chamber of Secrets had been opened, and the monster within unleashed. A girl was murdered, and I was able to locate the murderer. Unfortunately, he was merely expelled and not appropriately apprehended."

"Wh-what happened to the monster?" Hermione's voice trembled as she wondered if they were setting out to harm Hagrid. She had not seen him on the grounds yet and supposed that his gamekeeper training was such that he never went in the castle.

"Precisely what we're going to find out this evening. I suspect that the murderer could not bear to part with the disgusting creature and set it free in the Forest. You have not had the pleasure of meeting Rubeus Hagrid. He was a third year last year. His wand was snapped, of course, and next year Dippet's allowing him to return to the school as gamekeeper."

That explained why Hermione hadn't seen him yet. She swallowed over the hatred for Tom in her voice; she did not want him to suspect anything, obviously.

"They're allowing a murderer return to the school?"

"Dumbledore's got everyone convinced that it wasn't the oaf's fault," Tom drawled, disgust apparent in his voice.

"What was the monster?"

"An enormous spider. He even _named_ it. Can you imagine?"

Actually, she could, as she had known Hagrid very closely for seven years. She merely shrugged, knowing she'd be unable to hide her disgust for Tom if she spoke. "Thus, we are going to be searching the Forest for Hagrid's little friend."

Hermione's nerves acted up in such a way that she thought she might throw up. She _needed_ to make sure they didn't find Aragog; Aragog had helped them, however questionably, in saving the school from the Basilisk and Riddle's diary in the future. Her grip on her wand became slippery with perspiration. Luckily Tom was a few paces in front of her and could not see her distress, though perhaps he might have assumed it was fear for an enormous spider that had supposedly murdered someone.

"Are you quite sure you want to go looking for this thing?" Her voice quavered.

"Yes, I'm positive." Tom brandished the yew wand and glanced back at her, his mouth twisting into a cruel smirk. "Not scared, are you? Where's that infamous Gryffindor bravery now?"

"I'm fine," she said defiantly, ignoring Tom's sardonic laughter. "But I mean, how do you _know_ that this Hagrid released the spider into the Forbidden Forest? There are a lot of dangerous beasts in there. Is it really worth it to go looking for this spider?"

"That girl's parents deserve to see the culprit of their daughter's death apprehended," Tom said, his voice growing quite cold. "Finding the spider will prove Hagrid has no guilt for his crime and thus should not be allowed to stay at Hogwarts…even as a lowly gamekeeper."

Hermione suspected that Tom just found the idea of ruining Hagrid's life good sport at this point, and she realized it wasn't just Aragog's life at stake here.

They reached the edge of the forest and Hermione gripped her wand more tightly. Mastering her fear, she followed Tom's svelte outline into the Forest. She would have to save two lives tonight, and if she failed, there would be disastrous results.


	13. 13: Taming of the Shrew

Bad Romance

Author's Note: Thank you guys for such lovely reviews! I really appreciate them. I actually edited this chapter; I NEVER bother editing these chapters too much because what with my job, classes, and the pace at which I'm updating this story I simply do not have time to carefully comb over every sentence. Please let me know if you guys think it helps to edit these sentences.

PS: I do look for spelling errors and stupid mistakes. But I don't go back and rephrase things and whatnot.

Chapter Thirteen: Taming of the Shrew

In spite of being one of the more clever witches she knew (not that she'd say that out loud), Hermione had yet to come up with some sort of brilliant plant for saving Hagrid or Aragog. Harry was usually the one to devise some daring and somewhat mental strategy on the fly; Hermione's skills lay in research and slow, careful planning. Unfortunately, there was no time for that, but when she racked her brains, the pressure she was under made it difficult for her to come up with anything feasible.

"Lumos," she murmured as they ventured further into the Forest. The acoustics of the Forbidden Forest were always such that you could no longer tell if it was your own feet or something else making each and every little noise. With every crunch of a leaf, with every creak of a bough, Hermione's adrenaline rushed faster through her body. Several times she had to bite back a gasp when she felt something against her; it was always just a branch that had snagged her skirt or hair. "So we're just looking for a giant spider then? We'll find that in no time," she jested, abruptly missing Ron and his sarcastic comments so much it was painful. She also missed Harry's bracing nerve; her two best friends had always held any fear she might have had at bay. Now, lost in the Forbidden Forest with Voldemort and purposefully seeking out Aragog, Hermione realized she would have to supply her own courage. Unfortunately, that was a tall order.

"When I last saw the thing, it was the size of a toddler. But those arachnids grow rapidly; he's probably the size of a car by now…" said Tom thoughtfully, still pressing onward. For a while they were silent. Hermione's fear began to dissipate slightly. Perhaps they wouldn't even find Aragog. She recalled his home being situated deep in the Forest, and they were still relatively close to the Hogwarts grounds. Relaxing slightly, her keen mind wandered away from the problem of saving Aragog and Hagrid to her earlier conversation with Tom. What he had said about Alphard's promiscuity had been lingering in the back of her mind all day, and despite being determined to not be manipulated by Tom's words, she was still curious.

"Did Alphard really…you know…with Augusta?" Hermione asked hesitantly, after waging an inward battle with herself over whether to ask it or not. Up ahead, she saw Tom's shoulders rise in a dry chuckle.

"Say the word and I'll tell you the answer," he teased, looking over his shoulder briefly to smirk at her. Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"Which word? ...Please?"

"No. The verb that describes what they might have done."

Hermione momentarily became rooted to the spot. _Say the word 'sex' to Voldemort? This is getting too weird. _

"S-sex," she stammered. She wasn't against saying the word itself, but saying it to Lord Voldemort was an entirely different matter.

"Now use it in the sentence," Tom chided in a patronizing tone. Hermione let out a growl of irritation. She should have just ignored him, but her curiosity had officially been piqued.

"Did Alphard and Augusta have sex?" she ground out. Tom was laughing again.

"How should I know? Why don't you ask Black, since you two are so close?"

She might have screamed at him. Instead, Hermione settled for angrily poking him between the shoulder blades with her wand.

"You're maddening," she seethed.

"And you're a prude... Or, perhaps a shrew would be more accurate. And Black can _tame_ you….Unless, of course, someone else already has…"

Hermione felt her head might explode in embarrassment. She thought of her nights with Ron, and suddenly felt quite girlish and immature. Tom continued walking, but she could _feel_ his smirk, even though she could not actually see it.

"That's none of your business," she retorted quietly.

"Which would mean either you _have_ been 'tamed' and are afraid to admit it, in case I think you're easy, or else you haven't, and you're embarrassed about it. Hmm. Which would it be?"

Hermione decided against pointing out that having lost her virginity hardly counted her as 'easy' and that sort of thinking was sexist and old-fashioned. She hoped that Tom would grow bored with her silence, but apparently, he was not ready to drop the subject. "I would bet my wand that you haven't," he finally said. "Maybe you've come close, but you could never quite commit to it. Maybe some clumsy, inexperienced groping in the dark-but nothing more."

He couldn't have read her mind for that. She _knew_ he couldn't have found that out. So how was he able to guess so accurately? She didn't like how he was able to accurately guess everything about her.

"Well, I'd bet my wand that you _haven't_ done it," she finally said. "Because you're scared of it."

"An interesting theory," Tom agreed mildly, though his vague interest seemed to say that she had been off the mark. "Go on."

"Every girl-well, _nearly _every girl-wants you," she began tenatively, "but you've never met a girl that you really noticed. Right?"

"Wrong. Sorry." He sounded cheeky. They were quite deep in the forest now, and Hermione marveled at how their conversation had completely taken away her fear. "Try again."

"You're gay?" Hermione winced when she said it, waiting for him to murder her, but he only began laughing. The sounds of his laughter rang out through the forest.

"Ah. Hermione. You are a wonder. Never change," he gasped in between fits of laughter. "No, you were closer before that."

Hermione found herself giggling as well. It was too funny to imagine that the reason behind everything that Lord Voldemort had done was that he was unable to confront his sexuality. Soon the forest was filled with the sounds of laughter, and they were holding onto tree trunks to support them as they clutched their sides in hysterics. "Yes, I'm gay, and secretly I cannot stop thinking about Sluggie naked. I _lust_ after him," Tom added in a dramatic, angst-filled voice. That set them off again.

Finally their laughter had died down and they were merely chuckling randomly as they walked.

"Okay. Fine," Hermione said finally, her cheeks hurting from laughing so hard. "You _have_ done it. When you were really young."

"Wrong yet again."

"You…have never done it and have no interest in it?"

"Hermione, you are astoundingly bad at guessing games. For someone of your brilliance, one would think you'd be able to guess by now."

Hermione let out a sigh.

"You're a virgin, no weird psychological reasons attached?" she asked weakly.

"Wrong. You just want to believe I'm a virgin, to make yourself feel better, because either your first time was absolute crap, or you fear it will be and haven't done it yet." He paused. "Though I stand by what I said: Slytherins are simply more creative in bed. Black won't disappoint you."

Before she could stop it, Hermione pictured herself and Alphard together. The imagery flashed through her mind and she shook her head and let out a horrified squeak.

"Maybe you're embarrassed because you're underdeveloped," Tom said. "No 'Forbidden Forest' down there."

"Now you're just talking about yourself," Hermione retorted. "Maybe your wand is so long for a reason. You're compensating for something. "

Tom began laughing again, and Hermione wondered if it were even possible to say something to truly bother him. "Another interesting theory, but one I can disprove…with visuals, if necessary."

Hermione could not speak; she merely sputtered in embarrassment. Tom turned around and for the briefest moment, Hermione feared he might make good on his offer, but then he covered her mouth with his hand, effectively pressing her up against a tree trunk. Reflexively Hermione reached up to defend herself. Her hands pressed against his chest. Just like earlier, she was met with lean muscle. He was close enough that his cheek brushed her forehead; her skin rose in goosebumps.

And then, she heard it: an awful, treacherous rustling sound.

They had found Aragog.

The laughter and cheer had left Tom's eyes; now as his dark eyes darted from side to side, searching silently for the giant arachnid, he looked predatory and fearsome. Over Tom's shoulder, Hermione caught a horrific glimpse of glistening eyes and sticky pincers. Tom raised his wand, and somehow, Hermione knew he was preparing to use the Killing Curse. _Think fast, Hermione. THINK! _

But she never had to do anything, because at that moment, the roar of many hooves approaching filled the night air. Aragog scuttled up into a tree and disappeared amongst the black leaves. Tom's Killing Curse missed and hit a clump of leaves, which shriveled up before fluttering to the forest floor.

"Centaurs," Tom said under his breath. The centaurs were letting out enraged roars.

"Humans!" they heard one cry out, his voice dripping with pure hatred. Hermione could hear the terrible creaking of many crossbows being prepared in unison. Around them, mice and other small forest creatures were scurrying away from the stampede of vicious hooves.

She pushed Tom off of her and grasped his arm, yanking him back from whence they had come. They began hurtling down the path, narrowly avoiding tripping over stray tree roots. Tom tried to pull back and escape, but Hermione reached back and snatched his wand before he could hex her.

"We cannot defeat a herd of centaurs," Hermione called back to him as they sprinted. Her lungs and legs burned with exhaustion but her previous experience with centaurs propelled her on in spite of her overexertion. She could hear the centaurs' battle cries, and they called out for Tom and Hermione, urging them to come out from their hiding place.

Before they knew it, they had tumbled out of the forest, panting and gasping for air. Hermione's hair was sticking to her forehead with cold sweat and leaves and brambles had snagged onto her sweater and skirt. They stared at each other, and Hermione realized she had gone from one deadly threat to another: she had escaped the centaurs, but the way Tom was looking at her, she sensed an Unforgivable waiting to be uttered from his thin, pale lips.

"Give me back my wand," he ordered coldly, though the order was punctured by his gasping for air. Even though they had sprinted at least half of a mile, there was barely any flush to Tom's skin, though his cheeks were, perhaps, slightly pinker. Perspiration dripped down his temple, making a damp curl cling to his skin. Hermione backed away, shaking her head.

"You _couldn't_ have defeated a group of centaurs, Tom. We don't have the same kind of magic. They don't even _need_ magic to finish us off...they could have just trampled us. I'll go back into the Forest with you to find Aragog, but we're not getting killed by a group of angry centaurs."

"Give me back my wand." He had caught his breath and stalked towards her. Hermione tried to evade but ended up being pressed up against a tree trunk again. She held the yew wand behind her back, her hands trembling traitorously.

"Not until you promise not to kill me for saving your life," she retorted, her voice shaking like her hands. Tom pressed his lips together so hard that the little color that was there had left, and instead of responding, leapt forth and pinned her. His grip was painfully tight as he wrenched her arms out from behind her back. Hermione grit her teeth to prevent crying out in pain. "Promise me you'll see reason," she ground out. Tom acquired his wand and pressed the tip of it against her heaving chest, his eyes flinty. He was pressing so hard that it _hurt._

"Never steal my wand again." His voice was icy, but Hermione refused to back down, emboldened by what they had just overcome.

"I saved your life," she hissed. "You were willing to get killed by a bunch of _centaurs _just to prove a point! Is Hagrid worth dying for?" She hated to say such a thing; of _course_ Hagrid was worth dying for. He was one of the best people she knew. But she was not supposed to know about Hagrid beyond his 'crime' and no matter what, Tom would never see anything good in Hagrid.

Tom opened his mouth to respond but seemed to think better of it. He straightened his svelte shoulders and quickly regained his composure, though his hair was still messy, a few dark waves having come free of the pomade.

"No matter. We'll try again tomorrow, using a different technique." He paused, his eyes flashing. "Next time, we'll use _bait._"

There was no question in Hermione's mind of what he meant by 'bait.' Tom slowly dragged the tip of the wand upwards from her chest, up along the soft skin of her neck, and then pressed the point a little too hard into her chin, forcing her to raise her chin and bare her neck. "And what tempting bait it will be."

In spite of everything that had passed between them, blood rushed to Hermione's face. Tom looked pleased with her reaction. "It's getting late; I should return you to your dormitory," he said then, lowering his wand and turning away, his robes swirling with the motion. Hermione followed him, still breathlessly angry.

In the Great Hall, Alphard and Rupert-why hadn't she realized he was a prefect?-were waiting. Rupert looked anxious; Alphard's expression was unreadable.

"How did it go?" he asked them, with Rupert lingering behind him, wringing his hands. His hesitance and evident fear made Hermione want to slap him; he was hardly acting like a Gryffindor.

"I saved his life and he has the nerve to be _mad_ about it," Hermione said bitterly before Tom could speak. Alphard glanced warily at Tom, and for a moment Hermione wondered if Tom might display more of that icy coldness more suited to his future self, but he instead laughed.

"Hermione's afraid of the centaurs. She completely panicked and dragged me out of the Forest the minute we heard them coming."

"A wise choice." Everyone froze and turned to see Dumbledore entering the Great Hall, wearing an amethyst dressing gown. "Tom, I was just informed of your inappropriate choice of detention."

_That explains why Rupert's here, _thought Hermione as she met Rupert's eyes. He looked away hastily, and Alphard and Tom seemed to catch on as well, judging by the glances they shot at the redhead. "Students are _not_ permitted in the Forbidden Forest, and if there is any reason for an exception to be made, Grogan must be informed." Dumbledore was angry, and even though Rupert and Alphard seemed to cower beneath Dumbledore's carefully controlled anger, Tom stared back defiantly at the Transfiguration professor.

"I apologize, Professor Dumbledore," he finally said smoothly with a nod. "I should have asked first. It won't happen again."

"You are quite lucky Miss Macmillan was clever enough to run from the centaurs; they are not wise to confront. She indeed did save your life tonight." Dumbledore began to turn away. "Since you are Head Boy, I cannot give you detention, but let this incident act as a warning on several accounts."

The four students watched Dumbledore's dressing gown disappear as the doors swung shut. After a moment of silence, Rupert spoke up.

"I'll walk you to Gryffindor tower," he offered quickly. Hermione was sure he had no desire to be alone with the two Slytherins. "My patrols shift is over, at any rate."

Wordlessly Hermione followed him, though when she glanced back at Tom and Alphard, they were both staring her with expressions that she could not quite interpret.

"Actually, Geoff was the one who told on Riddle," Rupert explained as Hermione climbed up the stairs with him. "I had heard about what Riddle intended to do, and I was telling Geoff about it and he flipped out. He even tried to tell Riddle off, but of course Riddle didn't listen to him. Then Geoff got really mad and he went to tell Dippet, but you and Riddle had already gone."

"That's….surprising. I thought he hated me," Hermione admitted, picking a twig from her sweater. Rupert laughed.

"Hate you? Of course not. Geoff is just….well, he's Geoff. Maybe he gets a little too into the whole Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry. And you're going out with Black, yet you never speak to anyone from our House. But he's not afraid of crossing Riddle or Black, so…" Rupert trailed off and said the password; the Fat Lady's portrait swung open. Inside the common room, Geoffrey was pacing. For a moment, with his back turned to the pair, he looked so much like Harry that Hermione was taken aback. When he looked up, the moment had passed. His jaw was squarer, his eyes less kind and bright.

"Thanks for telling Dippet," Hermione greeted, nodding to Geoffrey. Geoffrey seemed uncomfortable. Perhaps he was regretting his former hostility to her? Hermione didn't bother contemplating it. "I really appreciate it."

Without waiting for a response, Hermione clambered up the stairs to her own dormitory, feeling exhausted enough to go straight to sleep. Yet when she got into bed, she suddenly felt keyed-up and anxious. She looked at the Marauder's Map for a bit, watching Alphard's dot wander the corridors. _Does he ever get to sleep? _She saw Riddle in his own suite for a while. Then he left, and he met up with Alphard in a remote corridor. They stood there for a while. Hermione watched, wondering what they were discussing. She could have spied on them, but she was afraid to take any more chances tonight. Finally, they began walking the halls together back to the dungeons. Alphard went to bed, but Riddle stayed in the Slytherin common room for quite a long time. What was he doing? What was he thinking about?

_Probably how to create more Horcruxes. _Disgusted with herself for having spent most of her detention joking and laughing with Voldemort, Hermione wiped the map and shoved it back into its hiding spot in her trunk, alongside the Invisibility Cloak. The other Gryffindor girls were sound asleep; Hermione wondered what it was like to be so carefree.

She lay awake for hours. In spite of her self-directed disgust, Hermione could not rid her mind of the memory of Riddle forcibly tilting her chin upward with his wand, his flinty eyes trained on her neck so openly. She did not want to acknowledge the twisted and complex feelings that the memory gave her.

To push away those feelings, Hermione thought of Ron. She tried to think of his sweetness, his slightly clammy hands fluttering over her skin a bit clumsily. Stubbornly, her mind would replace Ron with Tom, and suddenly the hands would become cool, dry, elegant, and instead of the gentleness of Ron's actions, she could not stop from imagining how _rough _Tom would be. How he'd rip her clothes off. He wouldn't have to fumble with her bra; he'd be able to undo it in a single deft move. Or else he'd just rip that off too.

Hermione felt she might throw up. _Stop picturing it. _She tried to force her thoughts back to Ron, but it was a lost cause. She even tried to think of Alphard, for thinking of him was preferable to thinking of the young Voldemort. And yet that did not work either. Hermione buried her face in her pillow and let out a cry of frustration. This was the second night in a row that she had been unable to fall asleep due to inappropriate thoughts of Tom Riddle.

She knew he would have made great sport of the garnet robes she had purchased; somehow it was all too easy to picture him enjoying how easily the cloth slipped from her shoulders. Hermione tried to picture how he looked in dress robes, but it mattered not: he could have made a trashbag look refined and sexy. He certainly made the slacks and sweater vests that were part of the boys' uniform look like couture. How did he do that?

In desperation she tried to picture how he would look in fifty years, but the fact that his beauty would not last made him even more desirable.

And then her brain was, without her permission, recalling every instance of physical contact between them. How he had carried her to the hospital wing. She had been able to smell the aftershave and the scent of starch on his crisp white shirt. Her forehead had been pressed against his smooth neck; he had been freshly shaven and his jawline perfectly smooth. What would it be like to run her lips along his jaw? Would he even enjoy it?

It was torture, for he was the last person in the world that she ought to think of in such a way. Hermione knew she was beginning to seriously lose her sanity if she was picturing how Lord Voldemort would undress her. Especially since he was planning to use her as bait to lure Aragog, and she knew if the enormous spider accidentally took off her arm or something, Tom would not be bothered about it at all.


	14. 14: Heartbeats

Bad Romance

Author's Note: FINALLY. Some real action :P A lot of you have been asking for Hermione to get a friend; she finally does, and more to come in that department. Also, more romance! Yay! And Tom smexiness ;) Hope you guys liked this chapter!

Thank you guys for your many awesome reviews. I cherish each one (because I'm lame like that and appreciate even criticism). If you guys can, please leave signed reviews so I can reply to your questions! Otherwise, I'll just start answering them in author's notes, or else on my livejournal. Either one. Any votes?

Chapter Fourteen: Heartbeats

The next day, in a half-hearted attempt to justify her focus on Tom Riddle, Hermione explained to Dumbledore that she would have to do some traveling over the winter holidays. She knew he'd be much more worthwhile in approaching than the impotent Dippet, especially since he was already aware that she was here on a mission. Unsurprisingly Dumbledore was quite understanding, and even suggested places where Hermione could stay on her journey.

Satisfied that she had done something to forward her mission, Hermione turned her attention to a more pressing problem: what to do to save Aragog? Hermione had considered anonymously owling Hagrid about the danger his pet was in, but decided against it. It might have brought too much attention to the whole problem, and she wasn't sure Hagrid would believe her, or have the ability to get near the Forest unseen, at any rate.

Tom also kindly reminded her that despite Dumbledore's warning, they would carry on with their plans for detention. She was to meet him at midnight that night, outside of the library rather than the Great Hall in case Dumbledore was planning on trying to catch them.

All day, Hermione had felt sick with nerves. The only possible solution to the problem Hermione could imagine would be to slip into the Forbidden Forest before she met Tom and warn Aragog in some way…or perhaps she could warn the centaurs of Tom's plan, though she was not entirely sure she could get anywhere near the centaurs long enough to explain without putting her own life in danger.

In Potions, she and Tom bent their heads over a Strengthening Solution. Tom had gotten the pomegranate juice, and Hermione was adding the salamander blood, when Tom spoke in a murmur.

"Maybe you will have a use for that perfume after all. It might help for your role as bait," he suggested, his dark eyes flickering over Hermione, watching for her reaction. Hermione scoffed and snatched the pomegranate juice from Tom to add it as well to the concoction.

"I threw it out, if you must know," she said primly. She heard Tom sigh.

"That's a shame. I quite liked it. I'm sure Aragog would have too," he said mournfully. "Not that I think your flesh won't be enough to tempt the spider," he added. Hermione couldn't believe that they were having this conversation, especially in the middle of Potions. But as the rest of the students were slogging through the class, mixing up ingredients and swearing loudly, their interaction was for once mostly unnoticed. Then again, Slughorn was continually sending them sickening approving looks. Clearly he was making the wrong conclusion about why they were whispering to each other.

"You're vile, Riddle. I'm still waiting for you to thank me for saving your sorry self," Hermione said, taking a moment to cross her arms and regard Tom with a raised eyebrow. Tom smirked and returned the expression.

"And I'm still waiting for you to guess my favorite book."

They were so busy with their staring contest that they nearly ruined the Strengthening Solution, though luckily Hermione had happened to begin to feel self-conscious with all of the staring, and looked away just as the Solution had begun to froth. As usual, Slughorn pronounced them the perfect partners for Potions, hinting that alone they'd do well, but together, go on to do great things. As Hermione recovered from Slughorn's smarmy wink by shuddering as she left class, she considered his statement.

What would happen if Hermione ended up helping Riddle in his quest for immortality? Hermione looked up, watching Riddle walk ahead of her, surrounded by his usual crowd. He laughed at something Abraxas said. His voice, that sensual baritone that would one day become high and cold, made shivers run up and down her spine. Before he turned the corner, still laughing, he looked up and glanced over his shoulder at her. The light streaming in from a stained glass window highlighted his gleaming dark waves, his high cheekbones, and brought light to his normally dark eyes.

The feelings she had when she saw him were unplaceable. And somehow, when their eyes met and she saw his lips form her name, she felt that, perhaps, he was struggling to understand the chemistry between them as well.

* * *

><p>After a Defense Against the Dark Arts class that ended with Hermione roundly despising Tom Riddle (he still seemed to find the idea of using her as 'bait' highly amusing), Hermione slumped at the Gryffindor table at lunch, idly trucking her kippers round her plate. Wrapped up in frantic planning of how she would handle saving Aragog, Hagrid, and now herself, Hermione did not notice right away that Geoffrey and Rupert had sat down with her, with Rupert next to her and Geoffrey across from her.<p>

"Still freaking out from your detention last night?" asked Rupert sympathetically. Hermione jumped in her seat, startled.

"What? Oh, no, sorry, just thinking about all of the homework," she stammered. Geoffrey's eyes were trained on her as though he were trying to decide whether to sneer or not.

"Yeah, I think I'll most likely fail Potions," Rupert said gloomily, piling kippers and fried potatoes onto his plate. Hermione's mouth twisted into a reluctant grin at Geoffrey.

"Thanks for trying to stand up for me, by the way. I was still a bit in shock from outrunning a herd of centaurs, so I know I wasn't very appreciative last night."

"I don't like that bloke," Geoffrey said with a barely perceptible nod towards the Slytherin table. "Everyone else thinks he's Prince Charming, but sometimes he just gets this look in his eyes…"

Rupert, with his mouth filled with potato, began rambling about how overly paranoid Geoffrey was. Gesturing with his fork and sending bits of food flying, he was making a bit of a spectacle of himself. Hermione and Geoffrey shared a rare, private smirk at Rupert's expense, and Hermione was reminded of Harry in a deeper, more painful way than ever before.

This time, though, she resolved to not allow her grief to floor her. Instead Hermione put those feelings away, and joined Geoffrey in laughing at Rupert, who had begun to whine about how everyone was always picking on him.

They weren't quite like Harry and Ron. Geoffrey was more serious than Harry, and reminded Hermione more of Harry in fifth year, when he had gone through his moody, self-absorbed phase. Rupert was a bit more like Neville than Ron, with his clumsiness and slightly less sharp wit. But all in all, she felt like perhaps, she had found friends, and that was the greatest relief of all.

"Oh look Potter, there she goes," another boy said in a stage-whisper to them. Augusta was storming down the length of the Great Hall, barking at a couple of first years about playing Exploding Snap during lunch. Geoffrey immediately began cutting up his kipper into minuscule pieces, avoiding looking anywhere near Augusta religiously. Rupert elbowed Hermione playfully.

"Likes her, he does. Can't imagine why. Augusta's terrifying."

"I_ don't_ like her," Geoffrey ground out, though his cheeks, which had turned puce, told a different story. Hermione found herself grinning at Geoffrey.

"She's got a rather dominating personality, doesn't she?" Hermione teased. Though she knew that Geoffrey and Augusta would not end up married, it was amusing to picture the two together. Augusta was an inch or two taller than Geoffrey, though they both looked too serious for their own good. And that, coming from Hermione, was simply too serious to be allowed.

"He likes that type," agreed Rupert. "Last year he was after the Head Girl then. Minerva McGonagall…" Rupert shuddered. "Scary witch. Though a damn keen Quidditch fan, she was…Geoff thought she fancied him, but of course, everyone _knows _Minerva liked Tom."

It looked like this was a long-standing argument between the two friends.

"And Riddle rejected her. So she had to move on, right?" Geoffrey argued fiercely. Rupert scoffed.

"So? You rejected Brunhilda Vane and she's still on about you."

Hermione followed their eyes as both boys surreptitiously stole glances at a younger girl with an unfortunate haircut who had been gazing longingly at Geoffrey. When they looked at her, Brunhilda looked away so hastily that her neck cracked loudly. Tears in her eyes and cheeks burning with embarrassment, Brunhilda nearly knocked over the table when she shot up out of her seat and left the Great Hall. Geoffrey looked uncomfortable and defensive.

"I'd feel worse about it, but she _did _slip Amortentia in my pumpkin juice last year," he sighed. "And over the summer, we had to be here for Quidditch tryouts, and Grogan nearly murdered me when he caught me trying to climb the greenhouses just to get away from her. She snuck into the bloody school and just kept staring!" he sputtered angrily. "Almost blew the tryouts because I kept looking down and seeing her muttering and staring at me."

"If she were attractive, you'd be dating," Hermione said disdainfully, though she was quite enjoying having fellow Gryffindors to talk to. Geoffrey rolled his eyes.

"Not _that_ argument again. Why must girls _always_ bring that up?" he asked in a long-suffering tone. Rupert sighed.

"Can't disagree though, can you? When you thought Minerva was after you, you got all flattered, didn't you? She's not exactly rubbish to look at..."

Geoffrey looked cross that Rupert was not agreeing with him. Hermione was about to open her mouth to argue further, but just then, Alphard sidled up to the Gryffindor table. The girls stopped gazing at Geoffrey or Tom and began tittering excitedly. Alphard's hair was wild and the grin on his lips wicked. Hermione returned the grin, feeling warm at Alphard's gaze on her.

"Care to take a turn about the room, Miss Macmillan?" he asked in a falsely pretentious tone. Hermione's grin broadened.

"You read Jane Austen," she said happily. Alphard's mouth twitched; Hermione knew he was enjoying how displeased Geoffrey looked at having him there. "It's time for class soon anyway. I'll see you guys later?" she raised her eyebrows, especially at Geoffrey, as it was his approval that she was unsure of. He looked reluctant to say yes, but finally let out a sigh.

"Weasley and I do homework every night in the common room. If you ever decide you're a Gryffindor again, you can find us there." His tone was sullen, but by the spark in his eyes Hermione knew he was kidding with her.

"She'll decide later," Alphard cut in, and dragged Hermione away from Geoffrey and Rupert. Hermione couldn't help but notice how easily Alphard got jealous, but she reminded herself that he was also infamously rivals with Geoffrey. _And no one thinks a girl can talk to a boy without ulterior motives, _she added mentally, though Hermione had absolutely no interest in Geoffrey, or Rupert for that matter, despite his similarities to Ron.

Alphard, on the other hand… They left the Great Hall. As it was still lunchtime, the corridors were not yet dotted with students, and they were blessedly alone. Alphard dropped the grin, suddenly looking quite anxious, and cornered her in a rather cramped space between a wall and a suit of armor. _Rock and a hard place, anyone?_ For a moment, she thought he might kiss her, but he stood a foot away from her, looking over his shoulder as though expecting to find someone standing there.

"You're going into the forest tonight," he finally murmured, his eyes roaming over her. Hermione was surprised by his evident worry.

"Yes, that's right…" she began hesitantly. Alphard stepped closer.

"Listen to me, Hermione," he whispered. Although she was inches away from him, Hermione had trouble catching his words. She had never seen the normally relaxed and overconfident Slytherin Seeker looking so unsettled. "Sometimes, Riddle does things…that aren't…" he seemed to be searching for the right thing to say. Hermione held up her hand.

"Alphard, I know," she said flatly. "I wouldn't trust him further than I could throw him. Actually, I don't even think I could begin to pick him up, so there you go."

"But…" Alphard looked more worried still. "You don't _understand. _Sure, you know he's 'a bit fake' as you said, but…" he licked his lips. "Hermione…Tom is…"

Afraid to give herself away, Hermione did not explain further that she _did_ know, possibly more than Alphard, of Tom's tendencies. Alphard seemed to give up trying to explain.

"You're too refreshing to lose, 'Mione." He cuffed her under the chin, grinning, and Hermione cracked a smile. "Imagine that: a girl who _doesn't_ like Tom Riddle. And you don't care about House rivalries at all."

"And I _don't_ like Geoffrey Potter either, in case you were wondering," she added, sticking her tongue out at him. Alphard snickered.

"Of course you don't. I'm loads more attractive, intelligent, witty, and a better Seeker." Privately, Hermione had to agree on that last point, even though she didn't know a thing about Quidditch. He posed in a heroic statuesque stance and Hermione gave a loud scoff. She raised her arms to push him out of the way, muttering something about going to class, but Alphard impulsively grabbed her upper arms, pushed her up against the wall, and pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth in a quick, mischievous kiss. Hermione sucked in a breath sharply and felt Alphard's eyelashes flutter against hers.

"Alphard!" Hermione said indignantly, clapping her hand to her cheek and staring in shock at him. Alphard grinned and backed away.

"Hermione!" he mimicked her shocked tone, winked at her, and then took off for his next class. At that moment, Tom had walked by, followed by his usual band of Slytherins, and having seen the exchange, he burst into laughter.

"This is good, Hermione," he said, walking alongside Hermione briefly. "It seems you're…irresistible." His insinuation was clear, and the wicked gleam in his eyes before he turned away turned her stomach. As he strode away, his followers grasping for his attention, Hermione diverted to the bathroom, and promptly threw up in one of the toilets. After having lived most of her life as the bushy-haired ugly duckling, Alphard's attention and the perceived flirting between her and Tom was almost too much to take.

Still, when she straightened up and wiped her mouth, she remembered that she had possibly made two friends. And, like the feeling she had gotten from befriending Harry and Ron, she felt like she could take on anything—even Voldemort—if she had friends.

* * *

><p>Hermione sat with the curtains drawn round her bed, staring down at the objects in her lap: the Invisibility Cloak, the Marauder's Map, and a picture of her, Harry, and Ron that Colin Creevey had taken a few years ago. They were laughing, for they had not yet realized Colin was taking the picture. Seeing Harry and Ron's faces steeled her will, and even though a few stray tears dripped down off Hermione's cheeks and chin, she felt ready.<p>

It was early yet; only ten o'clock. After consulting the Marauder's Map one last time, Hermione tucked the Cloak and Map into her bag, ready to set off. As an afterthought, she stared at the photograph once more. The additional burst of heartache and grief was like an elixir. Hermione considered taking a bit of her Felix Felicis, but decided that when her Horcrux hunt began in earnest, she might need it more. Thus she slipped the little phial into a shoe next to the photograph of Harry and Ron and left the tower. Rupert and Geoffrey were in the common room, though luckily the common room was still so packed with students that no one noticed Hermione slip out of the tower.

Once past the portrait of the Fat Lady, Hermione hid behind a statue and swept the Invisibility Cloak round her shoulders. Wand in hand, she drew in a deep breath and began ducking and darting through the corridors. She narrowly avoided Tom and Augusta and finally was in the chilly, damp night air.

Her only plan was to confront the centaurs. Aragog, she feared, was less likely to be reasoned with. Even if the centaurs hated humans, perhaps if she explained her cause, they'd be receptive. Her heart pounding in her chest, Hermione entered the Forbidden Forest. She was proud of how Harry-like she was being, for she had no set plan, had done no research. She already knew what all of the current research on human-centaur interaction was, at any rate. Her prospects were grim, but she'd rather confront the centaurs than Aragog.

"_Expecto Patronum," _she whispered, scrunching her eyes shut and fiercely recalling how she had felt after Harry and Ron had saved her from the troll in their first year. It was probably her happiest memory. Soon, the ghostly white otter playfully dove and swam through the air above her. Giving her Patronus her message, Hermione directed it to the centaurs, and then hid in a copse of trees, waiting.

The creaking of the Forest around her made her adrenaline rush, but still, the photograph of her two best friends was more powerful at warding off her fear than even her best Patronus. For an hour, Hermione waited. And yet, there was no sign of any centaur. With a sigh, Hermione pulled out the Marauder's Map and watched it to get a feel for the best path to the library, where she was to meet Tom.

Midnight was fast approaching. Still no centaurs arrived. Halfheartedly, Hermione repeated the same process with her otter Patronus and sent it to Aragog, hoping that at least one magical creature might heed her warning in earnest. Hermione double-checked that she was completely covered by the Invisibility Cloak and returned to the castle, overwhelmed by the sense of foreboding. _What would Harry do in this situation? _She wondered, ducking into Gryffindor tower to stash the Cloak and Map. She certainly did not want to risk anyone getting their hands on either item.

With no satisfactory answers as to what Harry might do, Hermione went to the library. Tom was waiting, in a sliver of pale moonlight. His traveling cloak had a high collar that gave him an even more imposing outline than usual.

"Good, the guest of honor has arrived," Tom greeted. "We'll head out now."

Hermione felt as though she were walking to her death; she wondered how Tom would use her to bait the spider, and goosebumps prickled along her skin. She showed no fear outwardly, and held her head high as they pushed through the entrance to the Great Hall. "Your courtship with Black is highly amusing," Tom commented as they walked, the only other sound being the _shh_ of their shoes and the hems of their cloaks along the wet grass.

"At least you're being entertained. That's most important, isn't it?" Hermione replied tartly. Tom's eyes shifted to her.

"Nervous? Don't worry, I'll stop the spider from feasting on you…or at least, I'll do my best." With a grin that bared his teeth more than usual, Tom led the way into the Forbidden Forest. Automatically they each cast _lumos. _

"I think you're jealous that Alphard and I have a connection, and you have no connection with anyone," Hermione taunted suddenly. She recalled that taunting Tom last night had kept her fear at bay, and she hoped it would distract him long enough to give Aragog a chance to run away. _Not that I'm positive he'll heed my warning, anyway,_ Hermione thought rather glumly.

"Who says I have no such connection?" Unfortunately, Tom seemed less easily distracted than he had been last night. His stance was more predatory and athletic; it made Hermione's heart beat faster for several different reasons, none of which were admirable. "Actually, in my opinion, _I _have more of a 'connection' with you than Black."

Something curled in the pit of Hermione's stomach; she nearly tripped on a tree root as she fought to return to her senses.

"Oh, really? How do you figure that one?"

"Simple. We're both brilliant students, neither of us is interested in sports or House rivalries…" Tom trailed off, frowning as he looked around. _Of course you're not interested in House rivalries. For you, there're only Purebloods and Mudbloods. _Sadly, the moment she had found clarity, Tom turned to her, that wicked smile on his beautiful face. "Ah yes. Here will do perfectly," he said, and raised his wand. "_Incarcerous." _

It happened too fast: suddenly, Hermione was bound to a tree by thin ropes. She clutched her wand, but Tom slipped it out of her hand, his fingers entwining a beat too long with her own. The contact felt like electricity.

"How original," she said dryly. Tom grinned, but the grin melted away to be replaced by a serious expression.

"This is good practice for what Black will want to do to you in the bedroom after the Slug Club party," he explained in a scholarly, detached tone. Hermione's cheeks flushed.

"You're barbaric," she snapped. Tom sighed, brandishing his wand and circling her.

"No, Hermione, I just am efficient. Rather like you."

"You're imagining perverse things about me," she accused, taking a different direction. "Why are you so obsessed with what Alphard _allegedly_ would do to me?" The heat rose to her cheeks as Tom chuckled, standing quite close to her.

"It amuses me," he said. "To see such a feisty young Gryffindor tamed by her so-called enemy."

She knew he had said it simply because Alphard was a Slytherin, and yet, she thought of Tom instead. It didn't help that he had drawn nearer, looking down at her rather menacingly.

"You can't get away with this," Hermione warned, fighting against the ropes. "Someone will find out that you went into the Forbidden Forest and that you tied up a fellow student for sport."

"I was rather under the impression that I can do anything I want," Tom parried. Hermione recalled what Harry had told her that Voldemort had said to Dumbledore at his orphanage: _I can make bad things happen to people I don't like. _Again Hermione felt she might throw up. Still, it was taking his attention away from his hunt for Aragog, and that was—at the very least—a positive about being tied up.

_Please let either the centaurs or Aragog have gotten my message,_ she prayed inwardly, shivering as Tom experimentally tugged on a lock of her hair with his index finger before letting it spring back into place. "You look so timid. It's unlike you," Tom said softly, his fingertips having brushed her cheek. Hermione winced. Was he merely enjoying terrifying her?

_He loves knowing he has power over someone. It's like a drug for him. _

"I'm not timid at all," she said, though her voice was traitorously tremulous.

"I rather like it when you're timid. It's such an unusual sight…the brave lioness, fearful and skittish like a kitten…" Their lips were a hairs' breadth apart. Hermione saw the flashing in his eyes, how he was so clearly enjoying torturing her like this, knowing she could not back away or fight against him. It was sickening, and yet, Hermione felt warm and light-headed. Deep down she longed to feel his fingers brush her cheek again; that simple contact was more tantalizing than anything ever had been for her.

Just when she thought she couldn't take anymore of the suspense, the distant sound of hoofbeats filled the air.


	15. 15: Nocturne

Bad Romance

Author's Note: So, I know this is sacrilege, but I really only liked the actor that they got for the chamber of secrets movie for Tom Riddle. He's exactly how I always pictured Tom Riddle. The kid they got for the Half-Blood Prince movie was just…meh. He was a good actor and all, but to me he looked too young to be Tom and, I don't know, the styling was off. The actor from CoS had that whole charming-then-suddenly-really-twisted thing DOWN.

Also, this was a very emotional chapter for me to write. I admit I even got teary at some parts. Yes, even me. I can't help it. Sometimes I get a little too into stories, like I'm actually there.

P.P.S: I am putting together my playlist for this story. Anyone want in? Maybe I'll post the link or something. :)

Chapter Fifteen: Nocturne

Arrows flew around them, splintering against tree trunks. One landed so near her hand that Hermione was able to twist her hand just enough to awkwardly saw at her binding on the same wrist. Meanwhile, an arrow had pierced Tom's shoulder. He whirled around in shock and pain, ripping the arrow out roughly and raising his wand. Droplets of red blood flew through the air with the motion, and Hermione was struck with the odd notion that she was surprised at how _normal,_ how simply and averagely red his blood was, like any other blood.

Before he had even spoken, she could _feel_ that he was on the verge of firing a Killing Curse at the onslaught of centaurs. _No. _Hermione ripped the nearly-free arm from her bindings and hacked haphazardly at the others with the arrow; a second longer and she would not have saved the centaurs. She stumbled from the tree and into Tom just in time. She was careful to snatch her wand as they fell in a tangled heap of arms and legs.

"You dare invade our forests again? You dare challenged the mighty Adil?" a brawny centaur with a black coat came to a hard stop in front of them, his hooves kicking up dust, dirt, and dry leaves. "Disgusting, arrogant humans. You fools cannot even read the stars properly," he spat, raising his bow with an arrow loaded in it. Hermione panicked.

"_Expecto Patronum,_" she bellowed, thinking hard of Harry and Ron's faces, when they had been so young. _Planning to save Quirrel, watching Harry play Seeker…_ she scrunched her eyes shut tightly and the silvery light slipped from her wand, the otter playfully dipping, diving, and swimming in the air around Adil's head. In shock, he lowered his bow.

"It was you that warned us," another centaur, this time with flowing blonde hair and a spotted coat, confirmed as he trotted up behind the confused Adil. "Mars is bright tonight," he said vaguely, glancing up at the sky, so barely visible through the trees. "You're too bloodthirsty, Adil. You have not been reading the signs lately, have you?" Hermione clamped her hand down on Riddle's wand, knowing at this point she would be dead in a matter of minutes. If the centaurs didn't kill her, Riddle surely would. Her heart fluttering against her ribcage, Hermione nodded. The blond centaur's pale eyes traveled from Hermione, her still-outstretched arm, to Tom, who was panting, waiting with a wild look in his eyes, for the unpredictable next move of the centaurs. As the centaurs glanced between each other, Hermione knew they had little time before she would no longer be capable of restraining Riddle. Suddenly, all of the centaurs pointed their bows at the entangled pair. Adil spoke.

"Leave our forest," he commanded. "Your warning will not go unrewarded, human girl. You may live as long as you leave these woods. But I'm afraid that is as far as our sympathy will stretch."

Her wand pointed at Tom's chin, Hermione slowly stood. Her other hand was fisted around Riddle's yew wand; the look in his eyes was caustic as his eyes alighted on her hand round his wand. Suddenly, he lunged for her; the centaurs did not miss it and then a hundred arrows were flying at them again. Hermione let out a scream.

"_Impedimenta!" _she cried out, and ducked behind a tree. "Now you've done it, you bloody idiot," she shot furiously at Tom.

"_I've_ done it?" he asked, his voice having taken on a strangely high and cold quality. "Hermione, if you think-"

"It doesn't matter what I think, you git! I was _trying_ to make sure they didn't try to kill us tonight, but of course, you went and ruined _that,_" Hermione shrieked at him. "Now we'll _never _get Aragog—" not that she was unhappy about this. Despite her plan having gone to hell, things seemed to at least be working out well for the magical creatures, even if she was almost positive she was going to die tonight. "—And I'm not kidding, and you heard Dumbledore last night. This is a particularly vicious herd! All we can do is run!"

And again they were running through the forest. Hermione was alternating between casting protective shields between Tom, herself, and the centaurs, and by the time they exploded out onto the grass, Hermione felt she might pass out. They had deviated from the path in their haste and ended up by the lake. Hermione dropped onto the rocky sand of the bank on all fours, heaving and clutching a stitch in her side. When she looked over her shoulder and straightened, Tom was unabashedly pointing his wand at her.

"Perhaps you can tell me something about the Chamber of Secrets, since you seem so intent on saving the monster that was contained within it," he sneered. The ugly way in which his beautiful face contorted into a glower filled with unguarded disgust reminded Hermione forcefully of how she had pictured Tom after Harry and Ginny had described him. Crumpled on the sandy bank of the lake, looking up and waiting for Riddle to kill her or torture her, Hermione was shocked that she could think of anything other than her own impending doom. Yet a million thoughts, unrelated and strange, flit through her mind. That it was strange how excellent Riddle was at keeping up this absurd charade, that she would have to find a way to hide her scar created by Bellatrix if she ever wore that silvery gown—why had she not noticed in the shop?—were some of the more prominent ones. And then, the searing, painful memory of how Harry's eyes, open in death, had looked. That peculiar shade of green, which the thing besides a fate of incredible self-sacrifice that Harry had been given by his mother. Then, of Ron's hands, how they had shook as he held out a basilisk fang to her in the Chamber…urging her to destroy it, because he loved and respected her. Her two heroes. This was not how they would have acted.

"Why do you insist on chasing Aragog? Hagrid's life is already ruined," Hermione queried as she got to her feet, pebbles rolling and _plink_ing into the water with the movement. Tom scoffed.

"It is an evil creature."

"And what makes you so sure you can destroy it? You're a brilliant wizard, Tom. But what if it killed you? Then what? All of that brilliance, determination…gone to waste, and for what?"

She had surprised herself with such a convincing line of reasoning.

"What makes you think I _can't_? I can do anything I want," he hissed. There it was again: that ugly raw ache for power. And she saw it flicker in his eyes. The same way she had simply _known_ that he was about to use the Killing Curse in the forest, Hermione knew he was about to torture her. She could see how his tongue rose in the back, his beautiful, irresistible lips forming the words, the way his wand rose slowly.

"Dumbledore's coming!"

Abraxas Malfoy was hurdling toward them, nearly tripping over his robes, with Romulus and Marcus behind him. Staggered a few feet back, Alphard was walking slower. As he approached, Hermione could see he was appraising the situation. His face was ashen as his normally warm brown eyes darted from Riddle's still upraised wand to Hermione.

Abraxas bent over, panting. "That Potter told him the Gryffindor girl was gone," he explained, gasping for air. "And Dumbledore's coming out to investigate! So we got Peeves to set off a diversion by throwing things at Augusta in the Great Hall. He's slowed down, but not for long."

Tom seemed to decide to heed Abraxas' warning. He lowered his wand.

"Very well. We'll go in through the kitchens, then," Tom spoke, already turning, his robes flapping in the night breeze. He led the way back to the castle, with Abraxas and the other two directly behind him, badgering him for details on defeating Aragog. Alphard, however, hung back to walk alongside Hermione. Their eyes met, but neither spoke. It simply was not the appropriate time to do so.

When inside, Hermione did not need to be told twice to return to Gryffindor tower. When she got there, Geoffrey and Rupert were not there, however. Hermione wondered if they had gone with Dumbledore and were still being detained by Peeves. She rummaged through her trunk and retrieved the Map. Indeed, they were there in the Great Hall. She could only imagine what Dumbledore would think of the situation. Exhausted, Hermione changed into a nightdress and dressing gown and slipped the photograph that she had been looking at before out of its hiding place.

She stared at it for quite some time. Confused, her eyes aching from unshed tears, Hermione checked her watch. Hours had passed since she had returned. Consulting the Map proved that no one was patrolling the halls. In such a daze, Hermione left the Invisibility Cloak behind as she left Gryffindor tower.

The jarring memory on the lakeshore of Harry and Ron and how they had looked right before their deaths had done something to Hermione. She hadn't wanted to be weak, or weepy, but she found that her grief had evolved yet again and taken on a new, painful shape. Roaming the halls with abandon, her arms wrapped tightly around her, Hermione found she could not even conjure happy recollections of her time with them. All she could see was their eyes, so ready, so accepting of death.

_If I had just killed myself I could be with them now. _

She was weaker than she thought, perhaps, yet the idea of ending her own life still rang as giving up, not as self-sacrifice. She kept seeing Ron's lips, so pale and bloodless, his eyes so glassy and unseeing. Hermione found herself leaning against a wall and sinking down against the jagged stone, sobs wracking her body. If she did die, would she join them? Or would she be sent to a separate ring of hell for her cowardice?

As she stared upwards at a darkened stained glass window, Hermione gained yet another new facet of understanding of Harry. She thought she had understood his obsession with the Resurrection Stone. The feelings she had now made it plain that she had _not_ understood him, at all. She'd feared the light in his eyes as he had spoken of the stone. But now…she would have done _anything,_ given _anything_ just to see them, to talk to them, to seek their advice. To apologize for every unkind thing she had ever said or thought towards Ron, to apologize for having had the arrogance to assume she understood every aspect of Harry's pain.

"H-Hermione?"

She hardly recognized the tentative voice. Tilting her head, Hermione saw Alphard take unsure, halting steps toward her. Feeling ashamed of her display of weakness, Hermione scrambled to her feet and turned, wiping her cheeks. She saw Alphard's shadow move towards hers slowly, but he never reached out for her. He merely stood behind her. "Did he…what happened? In the forest?"

His voice was so soft and so startlingly reminiscent of Ron that Hermione felt the painful, aching tears coming again. Unbidden however, they slid down her cheeks, dripping off her chin. _I am weak. Pathetic. _And yet even with her self-hatred, all Hermione could think of how empty a world this was, without Harry and Ron. The angels, images of death themselves, in the stained glass windows seemed menacing and indifferent to her suffering.

"S-sorry. I'm just a little emotional. That time of the month and all," she joked, her voice thick and quavering through her tears. Alphard did not move. "Tom did not do anything unexpected in the forest. I tried to warn the centaurs beforehand that there would be a threat to them later," she explained in clipped tones. "But they attacked us anyway. Tom put two and two together and was displeased that I had interfered. That's all. You…don't need to worry."

"You know what he was about to do to you, don't you?"

The grey quality of the moonlight cast over the marble floor around them brought the Dementors strangely to mind. How appropriate that she should think of Dementors at this time of already insurmountable pain. Hermione was sure she would not have been capable of casting a Patronus at this time.

"I think so," she admitted. This talk of the Cruciatus curse made Hermione subconsciously hold her hand over her scar from Bellatrix on the inside of her forearm. "I'm not crying because of that though," she added, with the strange and sudden urge to defend herself against Alphard's judgment. "I'm not that prissy of a girl. Sorry about this."

"Then why are you crying?"

How could a Slytherin's voice take on such a genuinely soft and gentle tone? Hermione let out a sigh. The kindness and warmth in his voice nearly tempted her to divulge, for she would have given anything to have someone to talk to frankly about her feelings at this time. And yet, could she continue to lead Alphard on?

"There's…something you should know about me. There's a reason that…" she paused, hovering over her decision. "…That nothing can happen between us," she finished. She heard no signs of surprise or protest from Alphard, so she pressed on, editing her story quickly. Even as she spoke, more tears came streaming down her face, until her shoulders shook freely. "I once had two very close best friends. For years I was positive I was in love with one of them. The three of us had been through…unimaginable suffering. And then finally, I thought he was admitting his love for me as well. And soon after that…" she paused, unsure of how to handle the matter of their deaths, "they died," she finally said simply. "Both of them. And it was very recent…and, honestly, the whole reason I'm here at Hogwarts. My decision to come here was a spur of the moment decision. And to be honest…" Hermione turned to face Alphard slightly. "…I like you, a lot, Alphard. Probably more than you even like me. But it's just too soon." She turned away and began pacing. "When I'm with you, and having so much fun, and feeling so happy, I feel like I'm betraying him. It makes me wonder how much I actually loved him, since I feel so differently around you than anyone before. And I know he's gone, and I know I ought to let it go, but it's just so hard. And it wouldn't be fair to you, to just carry on without you knowing these things."

She stopped pacing, still facing away from Alphard. She watched, holding her breath, as his shadow stretched towards hers. She felt his hands on her upper arms.

"Hermione, you're so brave."

These unexpected kind words soothed and yet hurt at the same time.

"N-no I'm not. I ran way from my pain by coming here." And the moment she had said it, she knew it was the painful truth. She had run way from it all, and the mission to destroy the Horcruxes had been a convenient excuse.

"No one faces their pain or fear head-on. No one. Not even the bravest Gryffindor." She heard the smile in his voice.

"Not even you?" she asked, though it was hard to imagine someone like Alphard—playful, clever, witty Alphard—as having any pain to run away from. He laughed callously.

"_Especially_ not me." She felt his hands moving slightly along her arms. It calmed her. "But it doesn't matter. You can't deal with your grief if you're too busy staring it in the face. Besides, you're still suffering and lost from the grief. You don't have the strength to face it yet. But you will. It'll just take some time."

The wisdom of his words floored her. "And when people look like they're taking their grief in stride, well, I think it's just an act, isn't it? Give them enough time and they'll crumble too. Sometimes it takes more strength to know when to let yourself grieve…and to allow it."

She felt his arms sliding around her, pulling her backwards against him. "And you know, I highly doubt you like me more than I like you. I've never gotten flustered by a girl before, you know. It's got to be a sign," as he whispered in her ear, the playful tone reemerged, and it too was just as comforting as his wise words. He turned her around to face him, his hands gripping her shoulders, and with the half-smile on his boyish face, Hermione thought he might suggest they stay friends. And yet as they stared at each other, something changed in the air.

"Come on. You'll be exhausted tomorrow. You've had a terrible night," he said suddenly, breaking the tension that had formed. His hand guided her around and they began to walk along the corridors in unsure but companionable silence. They stopped in front of the Fat Lady, who was still snoozing, blissfully unaware of their presence thus far. Hermione turned to Alphard.

"How is it that you know so much about…well, about these things?" she asked, their eyes meeting. Alphard's mouth twisted.

"Secret," he said lightly, but the mischievous tone did not make his eyes twinkle as they usually did. "Good night, Hermione."

* * *

><p><em>finally, next chapter'll be the Slug Club party...and more TomHermione smexiness, because you know, this chapter had no awesome tension in it :P . Please review! _


	16. 16: Supermassive Black Hole

Bad Romance

Author's Note: OH MY GOD. This chapter is SO LONG. And I am super insecure about it, as usual _ PLEASE REVIEW.

Chapter Sixteen: Supermassive Black Hole

Hermione didn't like to linger on the things that made her sad, but she could not stop herself from thinking of Alphard's sad brown eyes from the night before. She saw him at breakfast and noticed he was distant and would not look at her, and the distance depressed her. Even Geoffrey and Rupert noticed.

"Blimey, did someone die?" Rupert asked, bits of potato flying from his mouth. Geoffrey shot Rupert a withering, long-suffering stare before turning to Hermione. He glanced around before lowering his voice surreptitiously.

"What happened in the forest? How did you get back into the castle without being unseen?"

Hermione sighed, not really in the mood to discuss it.

"Last evening I sent a Patronus to warn the centaurs and the spider that we would be there." At the look on Geoffrey and Rupert's faces she bristled. "What? It's _their_ forest. We're not supposed to be in there anyway. I simply told them that there would be a wizard, hunting for the spider with the intent to kill. And then, Tom…" Hermione trailed off when she suddenly came to the uncomfortable realization that Tom was looking at her from the Slytherin table. Around him, his followers were chattering, grasping for any attention he might throw their way, but his dark eyes were trained heavily on Hermione. She stared back, feeling like the other people in the Great Hall had melted away. The corners of his mouth curved into a sardonic grin, and then, it was like the volume had been turned back up again. Feeling like she had been splashed with cold water, Hermione turned back to Rupert and Geoffrey.

"He what?" Geoffrey demanded.

"The centaurs interrupted us in our search again, but let us go free…and then, Tom offended them, and we had to run for our lives. And apparently Tom had stationed lookouts, so they could warn him if Dumbledore came along…"

Geoffrey pounded the table with his fist. Hermione could not help but think that with his attitude, he'd make a good Auror.

"How does it make you feel that your little boyfriend is working against you? He's one of Riddle's cronies and he's proud of it," he asked Hermione darkly under his breath. Hermione scowled.

"He's not my boyfriend," she hissed back. "And did it ever occur to you that maybe, _just maybe,_ some of Riddle's 'cronies' are simply scared of him?"

"Is _being scared_ really a good excuse to let a girl you like be tormented?"

This silenced Hermione. She doubted that Riddle had _scared_ any of his followers—even Alphard—into submission just yet (he couldn't reveal his true colors so soon, of course), but she couldn't let Geoffrey roundly abuse Alphard in this way. She raised her eyebrows at him but faltered. He was just looking out for her, and being really a very good friend, especially considering they hardly knew each other. Really, his knack for noting untrustworthy people was impressive, and his Gryffindor chivalry was coming out on this occasion. She then smiled.

"No, you're right, Geoffrey. I'm just crabby because of the sleep I've lost due to these bloody detentions." Rupert suggested an r-rated reason for Hermione being so tired out from the detentions, and Hermione and Geoffrey both reached to smack him upside the head. She shared a smile with Geoffrey. It was nice to talk to a guy who wasn't a _complete_ idiot and also was not interested in her in the least.

Having mended her problem with Geoffrey, Hermione went to class, feeling in a haze. From her crying the previous night, her eyes were puffy and aching, and she hadn't felt much like taking care of herself, so her hair was more wild than usual. When she went to the bathroom and looked at her reflection, she saw a ghostly pale, sickly looking girl looking back at her.

Now that she was unsure of her terms with Alphard, and now that Tom had officially tried to use the Cruciatus Curse on her, Hermione felt exceptionally lonely, even with Geoffrey and Rupert's friendship. _I just keep losing things, don't I?_

* * *

><p>In Arithmancy, Tom sat down next to her and Hermione rolled her eyes. <em>Here we go. <em>She turned in her homework, and Professor Isopseph handed both hers and Tom's homeworks from the previous class back.

"Excellent work, both of you," he stammered, their papers shivering from his trembling hands as Hermione and Tom accepted them. They both had received top marks, of course. "I can see you both going on to do important things," he added before moving on to the rest of the class. Tom let out a sigh.

"Yes, except you'll thwart every single "important thing" that I try to do," he commented rather sullenly, resting his chin in his fist. Hermione was not in the mood to have their usual witty banter, especially since this boy would grow up to be responsible for her grief that was so prominent today.

And when she thought of it that way, she truly despised him. The pain wrenching in her heart—for grief truly was a _physical_ pain—made it so that she could not look upon him without grimacing. When she contemplated what he had said, she found it to be true. She _was_ trying to thwart all of his grand plans, specifically by going back to nineteen forty four.

"I will," she said in a feigned light tone. Riddle's gaze was on her for longer than necessary.

"Stop being so down. _You're_ the one that dumped Black." His tone was unexpectedly harsh. For a moment, Hermione wondered if he might actually be feeling protective of Alphard's feelings. Then she almost laughed; Riddle did not have friends, and he did not register that other people had feelings unless their feelings stood in the way of him getting what he wanted.

"How do you know about that?" she had to whisper because class had begun, though neither of them were paying attention. Tom scoffed.

"Because he told me," he said plainly, moving to idly draw on his parchment. "And now, he's unsure of whether you two are attending Sluggie's party tomorrow together."

"Well, I suppose. And I didn't _dump_ him, because we were never together," she added waspishly. "I merely explained to him that…" she paused, eying Tom carefully. She knew he was aware of what had just occurred to her, for there was a faint trace of a smile on his lips. "…How _much_ did he tell you about our conversation?"

Tom shrugged with obvious nonchalance.

"Oh, I don't know _how much_ really. A fair amount." and then he made a great show of paying attention to Professor Isopseph. Hermione blanched. Somehow, she was unhappy about Tom knowing that she was grieving over the loss of two friends. Even though he couldn't possibly know _how_ they had died, his having the knowledge made her uneasy.

"Furthermore, why is it that Muggles find the number thirteen unlucky, considering the evidence showing it is _quite_ lucky?" Isopseph posed the question, holding his wand in trembling hands. He had charmed a piece of chalk to transcribe the notes on the board behind him, but as his stammer was quite pronounced, the chalk was having a difficult time. The board was riddled with spelling errors and slashes where the chalk had apparently had no idea what he was trying to say.

As usual, both Tom and Hermione's hands shot into the air.

"There are several reasons as to why Muggles fear the number thirteen," Hermione said briskly before Tom could speak. "One of them is that the ancients believed that women's menstrual cycles followed the lunar cycles of the year. A year with twelve moons was considered normal, and this was why men—especially monks, whose job it was to make calendars—feared a year with thirteen moons. A year with thirteen moons was seen as a year of heightened femininity…which was considered a bad thing."

"Can you blame them?" Tom cut in with a grin. Hermione stoutly ignored him. "Also, in the story of Jesus Christ, it is said that the night before Jesus was crucified, he sat at a table surrounded by his twelve apostles."

Isopseph had gone quite pink, as had most of the class, at Hermione's mention of menstrual cycles. _Oh right—the Feminist Movement has yet to happen._ Hermione wanted to smack herself, though she still beamed proudly when Isopseph commented on her impressive knowledge of Muggle lore. _And I can't forget that it's a much bigger problem to be Muggleborn in this time than it is in the future…_ Even prior to the opening of the Chamber of Secrets, being Muggleborn was not something to be advertised. Hermione became a bit nervous about having revealed so much knowledge of Muggles, and before Professor Isopseph could continue, she cut in hastily.

"I remember reading about Muggles' fear of the number thirteen in an Arithmantic text," she explained. "They even have coined a term for the phobia of the number: it's called triskaidekaphobia. Can you imagine?"

Professor Isopseph began lecturing about the positive aspects of the number thirteen, but as usual, Tom was not paying attention, and was apparently roundly determined to make sure Hermione did not pay attention either.

"Judging by your behavior, I'd say you live on a planet with several hundred moons each year," he whispered, his lips curling into a wicked grin. Hermione narrowed her eyes at him but continued taking notes.

"Judging by _your_ behavior, I'd say you don't know a thing about women, since I can attribute most of my crabbiness to you," she said loftily. Tom found this funny.

"Don't know a thing about women? Most people will tell you I'm quite good with women. In more ways than one."

"Talk is cheap," said Hermione tartly, her quill hovering over her page as she attempted to decipher the notes on the board. It looked like the chalk was beginning to give up, for it had half-heartedly written down bits and pieces of the past few minutes and was taking to drawing little faces on the edges of the board.

"True, actions do speak louder than words. If you need a show-and-tell session sometime, I'd be happy to oblige."

"No, that's fine. You can leave your toys where they belong; I don't need to see them," Hermione retorted, finding herself unable to stop a grin from forming. Tom was stifling chortles by pressing his hand to his mouth.

"Maybe you don't _need_ to. But you do _want _to," he taunted under his breath. Hermione covered up her blush by scoffing loudly. She could feel the other girls' eyes on her and Tom. _They're dying to know what we're always talking about_, she thought with a certain amount of unavoidable pleasure. She rolled her eyes, but still, Tom did not stop giving her private little smirks of triumph for the rest of class.

* * *

><p>Strangely, for the rest of the day, Hermione felt rather cheered. She was feeling so cheerful that when Rupert and Geoffrey asked her to sit by the lake with them after classes, she went along happily. The warmth of summer was fading; the air was rather crisp. Yet the sun still kept them warm, and Hermione sat in the grass with Geoffrey, watching Rupert tickle the Giant Squid with a stick. They both were working on their homework, though as it was a lovely Friday afternoon, it was difficult, even for Hermione, to quite concentrate fully.<p>

"You seem in a better mood than you were this morning," Geoffrey commented. They both winced as the tentacle swiped at Rupert irritably, sending a spray of water over them all.

"If I don't get enough sleep, I'm not exactly a morning person," said Hermione lightly. She didn't want to admit that her bad mood had dissipated somewhere around Arithmancy, because that might mean that Tom's banter had cheered her up.

"Are you going to Sluggie's party? I'm assuming you are, since you're so famously smart." He wasn't complimenting her, merely stating facts. Hermione shrugged.

"I was supposed to go with Alphard Black, but—" she halted, unsure of whether to discuss this with Geoffrey. In the end, she chose to plow on, "—we sort of…it wasn't a _fight. _But…I sort of told him that I couldn't return his interest fully, so now I'm not sure whether we're still going or not."

"Why can't you return his interest?" Now Rupert was laughing whilst ducking the jabs thrown by the Giant Squid. Hermione sighed.

"It's a long story, to be honest. The short of it is that I was involved, and recently, he passed on." Her throat became strangely closed up, making it difficult to talk. "Hence why I decided to come to Hogwarts…to escape my hometown. And I _do _like Alphard…that's the problem. I feel like it's too soon; I shouldn't be allowed to move on yet."

"Just what every guy wants to hear," said Geoffrey dryly. He rose the pitch of his voice as he spoke: "'I like you, but you make me feel bad about my dead boyfriend.'" They both chortled heartily at that. Hermione's mouth twisted into a frown.

"I didn't really think of it that way, I guess," she admitted. "I feel awful about it. I didn't _want_ to tell him no, but it's just…it's not fair if he doesn't know about it."

"I agree. It was good of you to tell him," said Geoffrey with a shrug. Just then, they saw the group of handsome Slytherins troop out holding their expensive broomsticks. "Great, now we get to watch them show off," he added huffily. Rupert came over to them, looking heavily put-upon.

"See that?" he asked, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder back at the Slytherins. He turned to Hermione. "He's showing off for you, hope you realize that."

Hermione had to agree, though it was strange that a popular boy who could have any girl was trying to win her back. Alphard, Tom, and their usual group were playing catch again, and Hermione couldn't help but notice the especially daring dives and close saves that Alphard was performing. He was almost on Harry's level of flying today. Almost, but not quite.

Alphard kept glancing back at her and the two Gryffindor boys, as though to be sure she was still watching. Hermione rolled her eyes. _This is stupid. I should just talk to him again and sort things out. _

Soon, more Gryffindors joined them, especially in helping Rupert taunt the Giant Squid. Geoffrey and Rupert were quite popular, especially Geoffrey with the girls. Hermione noticed several girls shooting him longing glances, but Geoffrey did not notice them at all.

"Blasted Potions," he grumbled, slamming his textbook shut. "I'm never going to get a perfect grade in it," he added bitterly. Hermione snorted, though she understood his sentiment.

Finally, twilight was approaching, and students were turning in to go to the Great Hall for dinner. _Might as well talk to Alphard now,_ Hermione thought with resignation. Geoffrey and Rupert waited for her to follow them, but she waved them off.

"You go on," she said, glancing meaningfully in Alphard's direction. "I'll be there in a bit."

"Good luck," Geoffrey said reluctantly. Rupert winked and gave her a thumbs-up before both boys began trekking up the hill to the castle. Hermione prayed Alphard would notice that she had hung back, but he pointedly went up the hill with Avery and Lestrange. In fact, Tom was the one who approached her instead, having urged his followers to go on without him.

"I was hoping to talk to Alphard," Hermione said by way of greeting as Tom picked his way along the bank of the lake to her. "Why is he ignoring me now?" she hated to ask Lord Voldemort for romantic aid; it felt _absurd._ But she was getting desperate. Together they began to walk to the Great Hall.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because he's rather used to girls falling over themselves for him, and is not accustomed to getting turned down," Tom said sarcastically, though the smile never left his face. Hermione scowled.

"I didn't even turn him down," she said in exasperation, throwing her hands up in the air. "I was simply _telling_ him that getting involved was complicated."

"I assure you he was aware of that from the start. You're not exactly a normal girl, Hermione."

She let out a sigh, feeling quite frustrated. Finally, they reached the front doors leading into the Great Hall.

"Well, since he's so reluctant to talk to me, can you find out for me if we're still going to Slughorn's party together?" she realized there was a regrettable edge of nastiness to her request. Tom smirked down at her.

"Of course." he tugged on a stray curl of her hair before entering the Great Hall before her. Hermione stood there for a moment, marveling at the unpredictable nature of her interaction with Tom Riddle.

* * *

><p>Hermione had spent all morning on Saturday in the library completing her homework, as tonight she would be at the Slug Club party. At least, she thought she would be; Alphard had yet to contact her about whether they were going together, and Hermione wasn't sure if it would be a terrible idea to simply skip the ordeal altogether. The only thing making her hesitate was the garnet robes awaiting her in her trunk, still wrapped in the tissue paper from Madam Kilfeather's shop. Since she had been ignoring her appearance lately more thoroughly than ever before, she was actually looking forward to getting a bit dressed up.<p>

Four o'clock came and went, and Hermione began to get anxious. What if she did go, and Alphard had gone with someone else? Or what if he wasn't even there? Or what if she chose not to get ready and it turned out they were still going anyway?

This strange and abrupt rift between them was confusing and frustrating. Alphard had seemed accepting and understanding on Thursday night; why had he changed his mind? _Boys can be such prats, _she thought grumpily, packing up her stuff. As she was leaving, she passed by something that caught her eye. She paused, peering round the corner, safely hidden by the bookshelf.

In this tiny nook of the library, Tom slouched in a chair by a window, reading in the fading light. For once, she had spotted him but he had not yet spotted her. It was so clear that he had no idea anyone was watching because he was holding himself differently; his face was relaxed, one hand bunched in his hair and mussing it. His mouth twitched as he read. Hermione wondered if he was the type of reader who subconsciously formed words in his mouth while reading. His pose was comically childish: he was slumped so far down in his chair that his head rested on the rim of the back. One leg was stretched out, his shoe balancing on an edge of a shelf, while the other was bent, the ankle on the shin of his other leg. He was propping his arm on the knee of his bent leg, holding the book up and open with one hand. He was reading so intently that he was unaware of his surroundings. Once in a while, the corners of his mouth would tug, as if he were amused by something in the book. Hermione squinted, trying to read the spine of the book. Was this one his favorite? It didn't look to be a magical book; it was a small, worn paperback.

And then abruptly Hermione recognized it. How had she not realized what it was, when the very same book had sat in her room on her bookshelf? Hers was much more worn, and perhaps more loved. The cover had fallen off hers already, but on this copy that Tom held, it was still attached, though just barely.

He was reading _Sense and Sensibility. _

Hermione took off; she was sure Tom would see her walking by, but she found she didn't care. As she walked through the mostly empty halls, Hermione felt confused. What had he been playing at, reading that? Was he hoping she'd see him reading it? Was he trying to find lines from it to use on her, just to taunt her? And yet, she couldn't help but feel that he had been innocently reading it. He had looked _lost_ in it—probably the way she looked when reading it.

Even though she had no idea of whether she was going to the Slug Club party or not, Hermione dressed, simply to have something to distract herself from her tumultuous thoughts. She couldn't place what it was exactly that she felt at the sight of him reading so intently. It was strange to see him not trying to charm or taunt anyone, to not have any goal he was immediately striving towards. He had simply been killing time by reading; simply enjoying his free time. What a strange thought, to imagine Lord Voldemort relaxing on a Saturday afternoon. His hair would be rumpled from how his hand had been in it; his tie had been so carelessly tossed over his shoulder. The pantleg of his bent leg had risen up, exposing black socks and then a sliver of bare leg. It wasn't _sexy_ or anything, just so mundane. Tom Riddle bought socks like everyone else—or perhaps he murdered for them; Hermione didn't dwell on the manner in which it occurred—and put them on in the morning.

Instead of pulling her hair back, Hermione left it down, and went through most of the bottle of Sleekeazy's Hair potion in the process. It didn't straighten, or even decrease much in volume, but at least the curls shone more, looking less coarse and frizzy. After spritzing on the new perfume, Hermione slipped on the dress robes. Most of the other girls in Gryffindor were out or at dinner, so she was blessedly alone. She stood in front of her wardrobe's mirror, a bit surprised at her reflection. _Note to self: send Madam Kilfeather a thank-you note. _The garnet red really suited her, and after adding a bit of makeup and the matching earrings, Hermione was filled with a self-confidence she was unaccustomed to. Even if things went poorly with Alphard, at least she could leave the Slug Club party with dignity.

Even though she had taken her time getting ready, Hermione was still left with an hour before she had to leave for the gathering. She sat on her bed, careful to not wrinkle her robes, and after drawing the curtains round her bed, studied the Marauder's Map. Tom was still in the library, in that same spot as far as she could tell. Alphard was in the Slytherin common room. Her stomach lurched. What was he thinking? What was he feeling?

More importantly, what had happened to him that made him understand her predicament so well? Irritation at him dissipated. Hermione touched the map, watching him go from his dormitory to the prefect bathroom. Eventually, Tom left the library and returned to the Slytherin common room. Who was he going with, anyway?

And finally, it was time to go to Slughorn's office. Reluctantly, Hermione left the safety of her four poster bed, feeling anxious and clammy. Alphard was still in the Slytherin common room; she supposed she'd have to assume that he was not going to be meeting her somewhere beforehand. As Hermione walked along the corridors, heads turned and jaws dropped. She had to fight back the pleased grin that threatened to break across her face. Trying very hard to not look pleased with herself, Hermione pretended to not notice the staring.

She was early. A sallow-looking girl who looked strangely familiar and a few other students she didn't recognize were already there, also dressed up. Slughorn was in deep conversation with the sallow girl.

"Aha! Hermione, come in, come in," said Slughorn cheerily. Hermione had the feeling he'd already been enjoying the festivities a little early, judging by the pink shiny quality of his skin. "Hermione, this is Eileen Pince—another brilliant Potions student—but she's a sixth year."

_Snape's mother…_ Now she saw the resemblance very clearly. Eileen hunched forward a bit more, as though wishing Hermione would not look at her. Hermione obliged happily and went to get a butterbeer, content to awkwardly stand by herself like the other students.

And then, Slughorn's party _really_ began. The Slytherins poured in, late of course, with Tom in the lead. He was stunning in robes of the deepest, darkest forest green. They must have been more expensive, because there was something about the way they hung on his frame that was somehow even more attractive than the way the school robes looked on him. Abraxas looked even paler and more insubstantial than usual in grey robes. And then Alphard… her stomach lurched as his eyes met hers. His robes were a dark red, darker red than her own even. It was strange to see him looking so dressed-up, especially with his wild dark waves, but nevertheless he looked quite attractive. Yet his expression was even more distant than before. It was clear that they were still not speaking.

"There you are, boys! Come, sit down, let's enjoy some ice cream," Slughorn ushered them in, and Hermione couldn't help but notice that he 'accidentally' sat her next to Tom. Alphard was on Tom's other side, and Hermione thought if she tried to speak, she would have thrown up. Slughorn was introducing everyone, but Hermione registered none of it. Tom was also unusually taciturn. The atmosphere between the three of them was so strange, so stilted, that Hermione did not know what to do.

Eventually, more guests that were not students arrived, and everyone stood around in small groups. The office was quite crowded now. A vampire was deep in conversation with Eileen Pince. Hermione wondered if perhaps he had mistaken her for a fellow Vampire. It certainly would have been a fair mistake; Eileen was deathly pale. With no one to talk to, and with the prickly feeling that Alphard was watching her from time to time, Hermione quickly decided that she had had enough. It was awful enough to feel like she had no friends here during the week; she didn't need to ruin her weekends with this sentiment as well. She slyly ducked out.

By now it was late; most of the other students were in their common rooms or in bed probably. The halls were empty. Hermione gathered the skirts of her robes and began hurrying along, but stopped in her tracks when she heard a familiar voice.

"Leaving so soon?"

She turned. So much like Thursday night, Alphard stood at the other end of the corridor, though this time instead of looking gentle and hesitant, he reminded Hermione of a live wire. Thrumming with controlled energy, he began walking towards her.

"Oh, now we're speaking again? I was under the impression that you hated me," Hermione said lightly, though she couldn't hide the edge in her voice. Alphard's eyes flashed and his mouth twitched as though he had decided against saying something at the last minute.

"I have every right to not want to talk to you," he said quietly. Hermione raised her eyebrows at him in exasperation.

"I thought we were on good terms when you dropped me off at Gryffindor tower. What changed?"

Alphard flushed angrily.

"Sorry if I don't take rejection gracefully," he snarled. "I was trying to be nice because you were crying."

"You run hot and cold, Alphard," Hermione replied, turning to walk away. "One minute you're sweet and gentle, the next you're getting angry and ignoring me."

"Well, one minute you're batting your eyelashes at Tom, the next minute you're crying about betraying some dead bloke!" he exploded. Hermione froze.

"'Some dead bloke'?" she hissed. "Batting my eyelashes at Tom?" Alphard seemed to regret what he had said. He exhaled hotly.

"If you're really upset about this guy, why are you flirting with me and Tom? And if you really like me more than I like you, why are you flirting with Tom even more?"

Hermione suppressed the urge to slap him.

"How many times do I have to tell you?" she ground out. "I have _no_ interest in Tom. I never have, and I never will. But we happen to debate often and people—immature, idiotic people—see it as flirting for some insane reason! But if you really can't let a scholarly debate go, then perhaps it's better if we don't bother speaking at all!" she paused to catch her breath. "I don't know if you noticed, but he was planning on using me to catch Aragog and then, when I interfered, would have been perfectly happy to use the Cruciatus curse on me had you and Malfoy not interrupted!"

Alphard blanched. He fumbled for a moment.

"You told me you didn't want to go any further!" he blurted. "You were the one that said—"

"—I meant a serious relationship! I never said we couldn't be friends!" Hermione interrupted. Her face felt very hot, and she knew that the shoulders of her robes were slipping down a bit. She yanked them up unceremoniously; she saw Alphard's eyes flick to them for an instant.

"Right, well, next time you get rejected, I'll expect you to take it in stride," he snapped, the color rushing back to his face.

"You hardly know me, Alphard! And you have dozens of girls lining up to do _anything_ for you. Why is it such a problem, anyway?"

"Because I like _you. _You, and only you."

They fell silent. Alphard continued, a bit more quietly. "And you said you like me too. That guy is _dead_, Hermione. He's not coming back. I don't know when he died, but you yourself said that being with me made you unsure of whether you ever had really deep feelings for him. That's got to _mean_ something, right? And yet you act like you're making this big sacrifice or something; like it's your _duty_ to not have any fun or let yourself have feelings. But who benefits from that sacrifice? Not that guy. He doesn't even know you're making it. Not you; you look miserable. Definitely not me either. So why are you bothering?"

"Because I'm not _ready_ to be in a serious relationship—" she protested. Alphard interrupted, looking thoroughly pissed off.

"I never _asked_ for that! All I want is to have fun with you and get to kiss you sometimes. It's like you said: I hardly know you. So it's not like I want to get married or something. But I know I like you and want to be around you!"

He had walked forward and grabbed her arms. Hermione didn't try to push away; she was still stunned by his words.

He was right, of course. No one benefitted from her abstaining from relationships. But one day, Ron _would_ come back…if her mission succeeded, of course. And maybe they'd be able to be together. And what would she tell him then?

Hermione was so confused and lost. She wanted to remain loyal to Ron. She wanted to be able to tell him she had waited for him. …But then, she was unsure of whether she even wanted to be with Ron anymore. She still loved him deeply, but what if that wasn't romantic love?

Alphard bent his head down slightly, their lips brushing. Hermione's blood was thumping in her ears as she felt his fingers twine in her hair, their lips still barely touching. She felt him raise his free hand to her shoulder and run his fingertips under the edge of the neckline. Her eyes began pricking with tears, but it was because she had come to a conclusion that confused and scared her: that Ron had _never_ made her feel like this. Warmth pooling in the pit of her abdomen made her feel trembly and unsteady; instinctively she reached forward and grasped the front of his robes to steady herself as he applied more pressure to her lips. He was deepening the kiss by pressing the hand in her hair against the back of her head. Why had she never felt this strange aching warmth before? What was it?

"Well, glad to see you two are on—er—_speaking_ terms, again." A familiar voice that was so disdainfully icy Hermione nearly shivered brought them both back to reality. Alphard turned to look over his shoulder and they both froze.

Tom Riddle stood there, his jaw set, an intimidating but beautiful figure silhouetted in the moonlight.


	17. 17: Potions

Bad Romance

Author's Note: Today, I experienced my first earthquake ever. It was so weird; I'd returned to my parents' house to do a bit of laundry and when I went upstairs, pictures started falling off the walls like a horror movie.

Also, I've been listening to the soundtrack for the most recent Jane Eyre, and some of it is so perfect for this story! Definitely going to add some of those songs to this story's playlist. That violin...so emotional and poignant. Same thing with the Deathly Hallows pt 2 soundtrack. When I listen to 'The Resurrection Stone' I actually get a bit teary. Is that sad?

Thanks for all of the amazing reviews to last chapter. I really hope you guys like this chapter just as much, or even more!

Chapter Seventeen: Potions

A funny—no, _hilarious_—idea struck Hermione: that Tom seemed jealous. This was, of course, absolutely laughable. And yet the way Tom's eyes were flashing as they alighted on Alphard was reminiscent of the few romance novels Hermione had read. He stepped forward, a fearsome glorious spectre in the moonlight. At once, Alphard dropped his hands from Hermione and stepped back. His adam's apple moved up and down as he swallowed in fear.

"Are we confronting Crabbe, then?" Alphard broke the silence. Tom had already turned away, his robes swishing.

"Of course we are. And you both should come back, at any rate, before Sluggie starts spreading any more rumors about the three of us," he called over his shoulder back at them as he walked back down the corridor. When he was out of earshot, Alphard turned back to Hermione.

"I suppose we'll talk later, then?" he suddenly seemed quite guarded and on edge. Hermione pressed her lips together, feeling overwhelmed. She looked up, warily meeting Alphard's brown eyes.

"You ignored what I was trying to tell you and kissed me anyway. You said a lot of insensitive things. I'm not sure I _want _to talk later, Alphard," she reasoned out loud, stepping backwards and putting more distance between them. Alphard's jaw clenched.

"You kissed me back," he accused hotly. Hermione's temper flared yet again.

"Did you hear a single thing I said? It's not that I'm not attracted to you. I'm not trying to…to…"she paused, grappling wildly for the right word, "..to _play_ you! But you called my ex-boyfriend 'some dead bloke', and then you just moved on in and kissed me, without asking!"

Alphard was silent for a moment as they stared at each other furiously.

"Fine," he said finally, his voice venomous. "Fine. Whatever you say. But you did kiss me back. Just remember that." At that, Alphard turned on his heel swiftly and stormed back to Slughorn's office, leaving Hermione to stand alone, completely surprised by Alphard's reaction.

She had little desire to return to Slughorn's party, especially since Alphard was there. However, Alphard had mentioned something about 'confronting' Crabbe. _Probably to lure him into Riddle's 'army.' _Her wish to work on her mission conflicted with what had just happened. Eventually, her eagerness to put distance between her and Alphard and Tom won out. Gathering her skirts, Hermione began returning to Gryffindor tower. Her heart was still fluttering in her ribcage as she recalled the evening's events.

The most difficult part was that Alphard was right: she _had_ kissed him back, rather enthusiastically to boot. And her skin was warm to the touch from the kiss. Kissing Ron had _never_ felt like that. It had never taken her any time to calm down, to recover, from kissing him. Not that she had hated kissing him. It just wasn't as heated, or unnerving. She had never experienced that strange heat that she couldn't quite place before. That delicious unsteadiness, that heady desire to never stop…

It came to her in full-blown clarity: she had never been physically attracted to Ron. And realizing this awful thing was the same feeling that she had gotten when she had turned seventeen: that awful notion that she was now an adult in the wizarding world, and it was expected of her to begin to support herself. No more building fairy houses in the backyard, no more Santa Claus…it was the end of innocence, of childhood. Being 'in love' with Ron had been a part of her childhood as much as dressing up for Halloween or reading storybooks had, and now, it was over.

Thus Hermione had been flung head-first into a kind of adulthood that she had not been quite prepared for.

It was like losing Ron all over again. Hermione could not sleep; as usual she slipped on the Invisibility Cloak and wandered the grounds, reveling in the cold night air whipping around her, chilling her to the bone. The sky was tinged with pink; tomorrow there would be rain. It was appropriately mournful weather. The hem of her robes became soiled from the dewy grass and muddy ground as she wandered. Her skin became clammy as her perspiration from exuberant walking chilled on her skin. The silken lining of her robes became damp with it. She felt like she had been plunged into the lake and was now still drying off.

And why could she not stop her ridiculous crying? Angrily Hermione wiped away her tears but they would not stop. She realized now that she could never have enjoyed having children with Ron. Her fantasies about them growing old together had been a little girl's fantasies of relationships, of marriage: the lacy white princesslike gown, taking children to parks on crisp autumn days, baking brownies together for grandchildren…these images had been notably devoid of the painful but delicious truths of real love: nights of passion, heated arguments, excruciating silence that follows after such arguments…

She had simply been too immature to understand it, and she wondered if, had Ron been alive, he too would have eventually come to this very same conclusion. Theirs was a romance that was pure, sweet, innocent, and ultimately primeval. It had lasted through their time at Hogwarts, and through their Horcrux Hunt, because those had been pure intentions and noble quests. But what of real, mundane life? What of petty arguments, of stretches of boredom?

Thoroughly exhausted, Hermione took off the Cloak and stuffed it inside her robes; she sat on the bank of the lake and watched the ripples emanating from a close-by horizon. In the distance were the grey indifferent outlines of mountains and pineforest. There was so much to do, to see, to explore. She had pictured learning the world's secrets with Ron, and yet, now she knew not how she could have ever pictured it. With the painful sobriety brought by seeing so much death, Hermione now understood herself, and her love for Ron, in a less flattering light.

But if she was not fighting for a future with Ron, what _was_ she fighting for?

_For Harry, and all of the selflessness that he stood for, _she finally decided. _For my childhood with Ron, for a future friendship with him. For a safe and loving wizarding world. _

These goals and dreams were far more salient than a married life with Ron. Invigorated, the tears on her cheeks dried. _Well, here's to The Boy Who Will Live Again, _she thought wryly. Picking herself up off the ground, Hermione turned and saw a cloaked figure striding towards her. She didn't have to squint to know immediately who it was: only one person moved with such confident and natural grace and nobility. A smudge on the landscape, Tom Riddle walked along the crest of the hill. Soft rain began to fall in sheets as Hermione, in resignation, began walking towards him. Perhaps more detention awaited her? Or maybe the Cruciatus Curse? Hermione was so tired and so filled with leftover grief that she was remarkably accepting of the possibilities of what Voldemort might throw her way. Tomorrow she would regain her spirit but for now she was just too weary.

"You didn't come back," Tom said by way of greeting as Hermione crested the very same hill. They stood a few feet away, the wind and rain sweeping their robes about them. Tom drew closer. Hermione saw he was holding a bunch of fabric. "Now Slughorn thinks that Black and I were fighting over you. Come here." He unfolded the fabric: it was a heavy men's traveling cloak. Hermione tried to shrug it off but he swung it around her shoulders. It smelled like him.

"You interrupted an important conversation," she said flatly, not bothering to thank him for the cloak. Tom scoffed; the way the rain plastered his hair to his skin and then ran in rivulets down his cheeks was momentarily mesmerizing.

"Right. Because you were obviously _conversing_ so much," he drawled. He studied her, a shrewd look on his face. "You seem miserable. I would have thought that a kiss from Black would delight you."

"You know nothing of what delights me," Hermione retorted. "Thanks for the cloak. I suppose you're going to give me detention now?" she added with feigned sweetness in her voice as she began walking towards the castle. Tom joined her.

"Not at all. You seem so unhappy; I'd hate to make it worse," he reasoned, sounding genuinely worried for her. Though Hermione knew it was all an act, of course. In the rain, the scent of Tom lingering on the cloak became more pronounced; subconsciously she inhaled the mix of aftershave and musk.

"Sure. Right," Hermione snapped. They walked together in silence that was not entirely uncomfortable. The cloak, while a bit scratchy against her shoulders, was undeniably warm.

"Well then? Why so down, Macmillan?"

"I feel confused," Hermione admitted, deciding it was pointless to completely lie. He'd pick up on it and likely bother her until the truth was out anyway. "I'm not sure about my feelings for my boyfriend who passed on anymore. I feel guilty moving on so soon."

It was ridiculous to be opening up to Tom, as in the future he would be the one to end Ron's life. Still, she saw little else to do in her situation. Tom was frowning in thought.

"A worthy reason to be confused, for certain," he agreed. "And yet maybe the fact that you're so easily attracted to someone else proves the lack of depth of your feelings for your old beau."

"That's exactly what I feel sad about. I thought I was in love with him for years. And now it's over; it feels like my childhood has ended."

Tom scoffed. "What?" she demanded, feeling self-conscious.

"Nothing, really. Just that I think you're the only girl who would have this reaction to this situation. I think most other girls would be too busy trying to keep Black hooked on them. Or else, they would be lying in bed, still grieving and unwilling to get on with life. You're very unusual…"

"I _can't_ just lay around and grieve," Hermione said with a heavy sigh. More silence passed between them, broken only by the clapping sound of their shoes in the mud and the howl of the rain and wind. Hermione could not read Tom's expression at this time. When they made eye contact, he was studying her carefully, as though expecting to find something in her eyes. Recalling his abilities with Legilimency, Hermione looked away. But it did not stop his staring at her. It made her uncomfortable and self-conscious. She cleared her throat. "…So why did you come and bring me a cloak if you were so ready to use the Cruciatus curse two nights ago on me?"

They stopped, turning to face each other. It was raining harder now, in a full-on gale.

"I would never use an Unforgivable on you," he replied, raising his voice to be heard above the rain lashing around them. He sounded suitably indignant; Hermione marveled at his acting abilities.

"You're lying."

Tom grinned at that.

"A very unusual girl indeed," he said cryptically. "By the way…your 'Department of Mysteries' looked quite nice in those red robes."

"More lies," Hermione said simply. Even the traveling cloak was now soaked through and through. "Why can't you just be honest?"

"I don't understand why you insist I'm always lying." It wasn't a direct answer. Hermione was frustrated by his evasion. She wanted to understand his personality in more depth, and learn what it was that made Lord Voldemort—at least, young Lord Voldemort—tick.

"Because you so clearly _are_ lying."

Tom pulled out his wand, but Hermione was too tired, cold, and emotionally exhausted to feel any fear. Surprisingly, he murmured _lumos. _It was the last spell she had been expecting him to utter. He held the wandlight by her face.

"You're not entirely straightforward yourself," he accused after regarding her with a level stare. "Because you say you never have had or will have any interest in me…yet…" he stopped and brought his other hand to her cheek. "…Even in the pouring rain you blush at my touch."

True to his word her cheeks flushed. Hermione wanted to scream in frustration.

"You were eavesdropping." She was going to give him a taste of his own medicine and evade his points as well, then.

"No, I was searching for Black, and you were screaming at him," he retorted before casting _nox_. The light went out and he stowed away his wand.

"I blush at physical contact with anyone," Hermione explained shortly. Tom laughed.

"Okay, then. Prove it, Hermione."

"I will! No matter how much you wish it, I am _not_ attracted to you," she said hotly.

Hermione began storming the rest of the way to the castle; Tom followed, chuckling.

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much," he quoted lightly, after they had stepped inside the Great Hall. It was significantly warmer in the hall. Their robes were sopping wet and dripped loudly, creating puddles of icy rainwater on the stone floor. In the warm golden light of the flickering torches, Hermione could more fully appreciate the way Tom's robes clung to his shoulders, the way his hair looked plastered to his pale skin, with the droplets of water shivering along his skin. Disgusted with herself, Hermione turned away.

"Thank you for the cloak. I'll wash it before I return it to you," she said a bit more coolly than she had intended. Tom did not follow her as she returned to Gryffindor tower. When she got to her four-poster, she cast a Drying Charm on the traveling cloak as well as her own robes, which had become so wet that even the Invisibility Cloak was soaking wet. She tucked away Harry's Cloak and her own robes, but could not resist burying her face in Tom's traveling cloak and inhaling deeply. She hated herself for it, and yet, she knew that had she brewed Amortentia, this—the strange combination of the clean scent of aftershave, of plain soap, and that unidentifiable musk—would be what it would smell like to her now.


	18. 18: Heart of Glass

Bad Romance

Author's Note: Sorry this took me so long to come out with. This story is getting really dark, guys….even though this chapter probably seems very light-hearted. The beginning of this chapter is very important later in the story...even if it seems weird now :P

Chapter Eighteen: Heart of Glass

Sunday: the day of regrets. Hermione slept fitfully, waking every half hour or so. By the time dawn broke through the curtains of her four-poster, Hermione was more exhausted than if she had not slept at all. Like a ghost, she wandered down to the kitchens, where the house-elves did the laundry. It was a mark of how very exhausted Hermione was that she could hardly rouse herself to feel anything other than benign indifference at the sight of the house elves slaving away in the kitchens and laundry room. And when a house elf appeared and laundered Tom Riddle's traveling cloak magically, Hermione merely thanked the elf and then made her way back to Gryffindor tower.

Sunday passed in a haze. Hermione sat in the library, poring over maps—she was careful to not make it too obvious that she was researching Little Hangleton, lest Riddle walk in and see her—and in a particularly sunny corner of the library, she fell asleep, with her head in her arms on the table. Her dreams were odd, fragmented: sometimes she thought she saw Harry or Ron, other times they'd turn around and somehow manage to be entirely unrecognizable.

She kept seeing Tom, moving about the edges of her dreams. Curiously, she would search for him, abandoning her examination of the spectres that both were and were not Harry and Ron. It was like chasing Tom through a dark and tangled forest. In her dream, she became out of breath quickly.

She would see him take a turn round a bend. Now that she had thought of it, she _was_ in a forest. A shadowed and strange forest, she padded along the soft earth barefoot. When she looked down, she saw she was wearing her nightgown. Like the night before, her exertion had made the cloth damp. It clung uncomfortably to her body. When she tried to peel it away from her skin, it became more clingy, and it seemed like the amount of cloth multiplied, until she was trailing a long train of damp white cotton behind her. It snagged on bramble. Up ahead, she heard Tom's mesmerizing, baritone laugh. Why was he laughing at her? Humiliated, Hermione set to work on freeing herself of the fabric. Ahead on the path Tom had stopped and was watching her, amused and disdainful.

"Hermione."

She told him to go away, and he laughed again. Filled with rage, Hermione began to run back the other way. In the distance were those figures that might be Harry and Ron. She wanted to scream for help, but every time she thought she was on the verge of finding them, of approaching them, they became less salient and less recognizable.

"Hermione..." Hermione scrunched her eyes shut more tightly, the last bit of her strange dreams slipping away as she woke up slowly. Ron's strange and un-Ron face was drifting away...

"Hermione!" the voice was more impatient now. Hermione raised her head slightly to see none other than the young Lord Voldemort himself, leaning over the table and shaking her awake. He looked half-exasperated, half-amused.

"Good morning," she mumbled, her voice raspy from sleep. Tom's mouth twisted into a wry, somewhat indulgent grin.

"It's okay, maps bore me as well," he confided, sliding the map of southern England out from under her arms and folding it absently. He studied her for a moment as Hermione slowly became more aware of her surroundings. Outside, the light seemed golden. _That's right, _she thought, _it must be late afternoon now..._

"S-sorry," she managed to utter, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. Now that she was awake, she felt quite self-conscious. Especially since Tom was standing there in all of his pressed and gleaming glory. His usual scent played in the air and reminded Hermione's sleep-addled of something. "Your cloak!" she said suddenly. Tom raised an eyebrow as he sat on the edge of the table, looking down at her with mild interest. "I laundered your cloak. It's here..." she rummaged through her bag and produced the bundle of rough, scratchy fabric.

"That was awfully prompt of you," he commented, accepting it. "It's just as well though," he added rather darkly. "Sluggie strikes again. It seems he's convinced that you, me, and Black are caught up in some absurd love triangle, and as he's on my side, he's taken to trashing Black roundly to everyone else. If people saw you returning an item of my clothing to me..." His voice was dry and detachedly amused. "Black looks even worse for wear than you."

Hermione's jaw dropped. Her mind had sharpened now, being awake for a few minutes, and she recalled the previous night's events. _Alphard..._ Deciding she wouldn't give Riddle the satisfaction of asking after Alphard, Hermione smoothed her hair and stood up.

"Well, I've endured worse before," she began briskly, packing up her things. Tom scoffed.

"Like what? Dueling with Grindelwald?" his tone was light, teasing. Sitting on the edge of the table, lit from behind by the sun streaming in through the window, Tom looked mischievous and elfin. If she squinted, Hermione could faintly see traces of the future Voldemort in the features of this beautiful boy. Mostly in the eyes. Those dark, cunning eyes. She could not even identify what color they were...and one day, they'd be horrible, red, and slitted like a cat's. And then it was gone in a flash, and he was back to being angelic, beautiful Tom Riddle Jr. Hermione looked back at him and shook her head.

"Worse," she finally spoke. She made to leave, but Tom leapt off the desk and stopped her.

"Worse than Grindelwald? He's the most powerful dark wizard in history." There was something a bit disdainful about his tone; Hermione could tell that Riddle already considered himself much more impressive. _He already has two Horcruxes created..._ Hermione reminded herself. Riddle's hand was on her shoulder; she looked down and saw the Resurrection stone on his elegant pale hand. Tom Riddle Sr. was dead, and Morfin was in Azkaban, all for this ring. Hermione looked up into Tom's eyes. So many conflicting emotions bounced in her head that she knew that even if Tom had used Legilimency on her, it would have been all for naught.

"I'm not scared of Grindelwald," she replied levelly. Tom looked surprised and impressed.

"Then what are you scared of?"

_You,_ Hermione thought, but she dared not say it. She turned.

"Riddle, you know what boggarts are?" she asked evasively. Tom scoffed.

"Of course. What of them?"

"When you see a boggart, what does it look like?" she had always been curious of this. Some had speculated that he'd see Dumbledore, but somehow, she didn't believe that that was what Lord Voldemort feared the most.

"My friends dead," Tom replied automatically. It was a rehearsed answer, clearly. The silence of the library buzzing around them, Hermione turned back to him again. She knew her cheeks were pink from his touch but luckily he was not commenting on it, for once. Now he was looking at her with great, unmasked curiosity. "What do you see when you see a boggart, Hermione?"

"A homework with a nine out of ten instead of full marks," she said lightly. Tom was laughing at her now. His grip tightened on her shoulder and he turned her back to face him fully. They were alone now; if he hurt her, no one would know it. Pressed against a shelf, the wood and the spines of books digging into her back, unable to escape the tantalizing blend of aftershave and musk, Hermione felt a stab of recognition. Riddle was always cornering her; what was his goal in doing this?

"You're lying," he murmured, grinning slyly.

"So are you," she accused immediately. Tom cocked his head to the side.

"So again we lie outright to each other. When will you tell me the truth?"

"When you tell me the truth. Now, if you'll excuse me, I haven't eaten yet today." Her stomach gave a low rumble just as she said this, and before Tom could react this time, Hermione ducked away from him and darted to the Great Hall to catch the tail-end of dinner.

* * *

><p>True to Tom's word, Slughorn had become—if possible—even worse. In Potions, he had paired Hermione and Tom together to brew a mild Truth potion, and kept giving Tom encouraging little winks. To Hermione's horror, he even cracked a weak joke about what they might find if they slipped Hermione some truth potion…hinting that the answer would be related to Tom in some way. The irony was not wasted on Hermione, but she was in too foul a mood to laugh about it to herself. All in all, Monday was horrible, and Hermione had spent most of the day dodging rather formidable Hexes from Tom's fanbase.<p>

"Black feels guilty," Tom told her, studying her for a reaction as they worked. Hermione gave an indifferent shrug. "I think he actually is a little embarrassed about it, surprisingly."

"If he wants to discuss it with me, he's welcome to," she retorted, pounding her beetles into a fine powder. Tom smirked.

"Say…when are you going to figure out my favorite book, anyway? You're awfully slow at this guessing game…" Hermione rewarded his question by a well-placed stomp of her foot. Riddle spent the rest of the class shooting her indignant glowers and rubbing his instep in pain. His fangirls, at least, seemed pleased by this.

At lunch things began to look up. Hermione had been sitting with Geoffrey and Rupert, laughing heartily at Rupert's all-too-accurate impression of Professor Vanlandingham, when a paper plane that had been charmed to fly much longer than aerodynamically possible did a little nosedive into Hermione's split pea soup.

"Whas shat?" Rupert asked, his mouth stuffed full of profiterole. Hermione and Geoffrey each shot him a withering glance before Hermione gingerly took the parchment out of the soup and unfolded it.

_Hermione-_

_Meet me in the astronomy tower tonight at midnight._

_-A._

Hermione chanced a glance at the Slytherin table. Sure enough, Alphard had been looking at her, though when she looked up he had looked away hastily. With a sigh, Hermione stowed the parchment away in her bag.

"Just more fangirl taunts," she lied to both boys. Now that Geoffrey was under the impression that she and Alphard hated each other, he was so nice that it was disturbing. She could only assume he was mentally doing victory dances at having, in his own twisted view, one-upped his Slytherin rival. Immature as his behavior was, she hadn't the heart to tell him the truth. Though for the rest of the day, she was uneasy and on edge as she waited for midnight to come. She both wanted time to hurry up and slow down.

Would it be wrong to meet him? She was still unhappy about how he had clearly not listened to her. Over the past two days, however, she'd had time to think on it, and decided that a second chance was in order. As Tom had pointed out, Alphard was unaccustomed to hearing the word 'no.' And he probably had never had someone close to him die. She could not expect him to understand her feelings, arrogant and demanding as he was. There was also the fact that Hermione enormously enjoyed his company. When she was with him, she was able to forget about the things that made her sad, and just let the time pass. Having Alphard in her orbit made for a healthier mental state, that was for sure. And besides that, the awkward game of looking tag they were playing was getting old. When they passed each other in the halls, electricity seemed to crackle in the air.

And the fact that he had swallowed his Slytherin pride and was offering to meet her spoke volumes, as well. With these things in mind, Hermione slipped out of Gryffindor tower that night, silently thanking Merlin that Geoffrey and Rupert had already bid her goodnight and were not in the common room to witness her departure. She had checked the Marauder's Map, but thought it too risky to take it with her to meet Alphard; thus she crept along the corridors anxiously, ducking behind statues and suits of armor every time she heard a noise. Finally she reached the Astronomy tower. Alphard stood there, gazing out over the grounds. From this vantage point, still partially hidden, Hermione saw how tense he looked, and her heart went out to him.

"Hey," she greeted. Alphard jumped slightly. For a moment when his eyes alighted on her, she thought she saw a flash of happiness, but then he looked somber again. Hermione climbed the rest of the stairs to him and stood before him, nervous and uncertain about what he might do. Alphard turned away, choosing instead to look out over the grounds.

"Hi," he finally spoke, his voice a bit quavery.

"You wanted to see me?"

Alphard did not reply immediately. When he did reply, she was shocked.

"I wanted to say I'm sorry," he began. He was not looking at her. From his tense posture and the uncommon frown on his face, she could tell this was difficult for him. "I was...being very selfish. It's just that I like you a lot, and did not want to have to hear you reject me." At his words, relief and forgiveness coursed through Hermione.

"I wasn't exactly rejecting you," Hermione replied earnestly, moving to stand beside him. "I told you: I really do like you. But...being with me would be problematic for you. I'm still grieving. And even though I've thought a lot about what it means that I like you, I don't want to rush into anything."

She could see Alphard was having trouble masking a rather triumphant grin.

"That's...fine. I don't want to rush into anything either," he said carefully. His eyes slid to hers, but he did not speak further. After a long silence, he cleared his throat rather loudly. "But I wouldn't mind kissing you again," he added quickly. Hermione burst out into laughter. It felt good to laugh. It felt good to be liked by someone. It felt good to like someone. "But I won't force you. Nope. You have to make the next move." He winked at her before letting out a sigh of feigned resignation. "All I can do is hope and wait."

"Oh, don't be a prat," she snapped, though she was feeling good-natured about the whole thing. So cheered was she by her reconciliation with Alphard that she leaned over and pecked him quickly on the cheek. He looked positively delighted.

"Come on now, Hermione, that's _hardly_ a kiss," he chastised seriously, moving towards her. Hermione found herself laughing as Alphard pressed his lips to hers before speaking against them. "You really ought to get some extra tutoring on your kissing skills," he added. "And I'm so generous, I'll offer my services, free of charge!" Hermione felt pleasantly light-headed, but she pushed him away, smiling.

"Very generous," she said in between laughing, "but in case you have forgotten, I have already told you I'd like to take the slower-paced course in this case." Alphard kissed her again on the lips, and she was again filled with that pleasantly aching heat. Why was he so very irresistible?

Finally he conceded to not pestering her for more kisses, and they walked the corridors together, chatting amiably. Alphard explained to her the finer points of Quidditch, and assured her that he'd teach her how to fly a broom sometime. They had even decided to go to Hogsmeade together the next time a weekend for it came up. By the time they had reached Gryffindor tower, Hermione was feeling lighter than air. She had not felt this carefree in a long time. So carefree did she feel that she found herself leaning forward in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady and kissing Alphard square on the lips. As she climbed through the portrait hole, she glanced back over her shoulder just in time to see Alphard do a little victory jump before jogging down the corridor.

The thing was, she didn't realize that Tom Riddle had seen the whole thing.

* * *

><p>Sorry guys—had to set up for next chapter...which (finally) has the content that has earned this story its M-rating. PLEASE REVIEW!<p> 


	19. 19: Lost Horizons

Bad Romance

Author's Note: In an effort to save everyone from the hurricane, my university is totally losing its shit and the first day(s?) of class is postponed…until further notice. Weird.

Also, since I took an extra day to post, this chapter is extra-long. Some of you might find my 'm-rated' content very tame...I'm always very hesitant to write anything like that so don't make fun of me. Any critiques are, as always, highly appreciated.

Chapter Nineteen: Lost Horizons

Days passed. At Hermione's request, she and Alphard did not make a public issue out of their tentative, unofficial courtship. It wasn't too difficult to keep it under wraps, either: they hardly ever saw each other during the day anyway, being in different classes and different Houses. They only had Herbology together, but since they had always worked together during Herbology, no one noticed any great difference in behavior between them.

Besides that, Hermione had decided to increase the amount of time she devoted to her mission. Using the same charm that was placed on the Marauder's Map to keep its secrets hidden, Hermione began to work on a map of her own: a map of all of the places that Horcruxes were hidden as well as all of the places she wanted to visit over her holiday. She lost quite a bit of sleep slaving over it. As she could not risk working on it in the library, Hermione took to crouching over it on her bed, holding her wandlight over it with one hand and copying from other maps with the other. The map extended over several pieces of parchment, to include Little Hangleton and the surrounding areas, the orphanage in which Tom was raised, the area that was home to the cave full of Inferi, and a portion that was for now left blank. When she visited the Albanian forests, it would be detailed then.

Hermione had decided (though it pained her) to not attempt to destroy either the Peverell ring or the diary. The diary was something that had brought Harry and Ginny together, and had given Dumbledore vital clues about the rest of the Horcruxes, as well as Harry's connection with Voldemort. It would drastically alter the future to destroy it beforehand. As for the ring, the curse it had on it had caused Dumbledore's untimely death. Though she wanted more than anything to save Dumbledore, she knew his death had set into motion far too many important events.

Hermione drew a little circle on the blank parchment that would one day hold a map of the forest where the diadem was hidden. She would destroy that one, for certain, though as to _when_ was the ideal time to destroy it, she would decide later. The locket was something that had ended Regulus Black's life, but it had also proven his true allegiance. To destroy it or to not destroy it? In the end, Hermione chose to decide on that one later as well. Tom would not create that Horcrux for a couple of years at any rate. Still, Hermione drew a pinpoint at Hepzibah Smith's house. No matter what she chose to do with the locket, she'd have to follow Tom around anyway. It would be important to learn when he struck up his friendship with Hepzibah, and perhaps even find some way to save the little house elf, Hokey, that Tom had so heartlessly framed.

Then there was the cup, which Tom had also taken from Hepzibah. That one she'd most certainly destroy. Hermione drew another little circle at Hepzibah Smith's house for that. Nagini would not be made into a Horcrux for over fifty years, though Hermione still drew a circle in the forest of Albania as well. She didn't know the snake's origins, but she knew that somewhere during Voldemort's bodiless time in Albania, he had acquired the snake.

And finally… Hermione screwed up her eyes as she tried to not get too weepy, and drew a circle at Hogwarts, for Voldemort's final, unintentional Horcrux: Harry himself.

To wipe the maps, Hermione cast _muffliato,_ and whispered, "Harry Potter." The ink disappeared from the parchments, and Hermione folded them up and hid them inside the garnet robes from the Slug Club party. The other girls in the tower shot her wary glances, but as Hermione was used to this sort of behavior, she hardly noticed any more.

No matter how fervently Hermione plotted against him, it was still hard for her to recall that Tom Riddle was, in fact, Voldemort. Now that she and Alphard were something of an item, she saw quite a bit more of Tom in her free time, though it was not as though Hermione hung around with Alphard and his friends. Avery, Lestrange, and Malfoy still regarded her much the same way that the Gryffindor girls apparently did. The hostility radiating from his friends was not something that Hermione and Alphard ever touched on. Instead, every time they were together, they both seemed to be putting forth every effort to keep the mood light…especially since, recently, things had begun to take quite a dark turn.

These days at Hogwarts were reminiscent of her own time at the school. Whispers of Grindelwald followed Hermione wherever she went. Whenever Dumbledore was around, Hermione looked carefully to see if he showed the slightest bit of emotion at the mention of his old friend, but nothing in his expression gave away anything more than bemusement at Grindelwald's rapid rise to power. In the Daily Prophet, Hermione saw black-and-white moving photographs of Gellert Grindelwald. Even though he was getting on in years, like Dumbledore, there was still an air of youthful, mischievous energy to him that was alluring. Not like the allure that Tom gave off—which was a romantic and sexual allure—but more like the thing that made people gravitate towards Fred and George Weasley. Grindelwald looked _fun. _He looked like he had an excellent sense of humor and perhaps greatly enjoyed nothing more than a good practical joke.

Her stomach turned when she saw these photographs. How must Dumbledore have felt, seeing his old friend? The nature of their relationship had always been ambiguous, but sometimes, Hermione had suspected that Dumbledore had harbored romantic feelings for the dark eastern European wizard.

Even though Hermione knew that within a year, Dumbledore would defeat Grindelwald in a duel, the constant whispers and the fearful expressions at the daily paper filled Hermione with apprehension. It was like seeing Voldemort rise to power all over again, and the terror that permeated the air was nauseating.

Feeling the urge to stop Voldemort more than ever, Hermione worked tirelessly. She had to get good grades so that it'd be quick work of finding a job with which to support herself, and she had to have a game plan for when she did finally graduate. Her next task was to find a low-lying job (ambitious though she was, Hermione could not drastically alter time by getting an important job, therefore risking more people recognizing her later on) with flexible hours. It had to be one that put her somewhere near Diagon Alley, so she could more closely monitor Riddle's behavior in Knockturn Alley. It also had to be one that Hermione would not meet a lot of people at, and would allow her to take long breaks to check up on Riddle.

Haphazardly, she began circling ads in the Daily Prophet for low-level clerk-type jobs. She also began to search for cheap housing near Diagon Alley, though the area was such a hotspot that she began to have the sinking feeling that if she wanted to live anywhere near it, she'd have to live in a tent. Not that Hermione was not accustomed to living in a tent for extended periods of time, but being at Hogwarts had reminded her of the pleasures of having plumbing, consistent meals, and a real bed in which to sleep. She was not eager to return to 'roughing it.'

Thus, Hermione began to count her savings. Prospects were grim: even though inflation had made Galleons stretch much less far in her own time than they did here, she still did not have enough left to comfortably travel over the holiday as well as recommence her mission after graduating. She'd have to invent ways to collect extra money before then, though at the moment she had no idea how to easily make spurts of cash. Before, any time she had been strapped for cash, her parents had sent her funds.

But it was hard to be too grim for too long; as October drew to a close, the air became ever crisper and, as with every autumn, Hermione had this strange sense of excitement lurking round every bend. It made no sense, but she'd always felt very hopeful about everything each year when the leaves began to crunch under her feet. Alphard, who viewed every month closer to the winter as a month closer to bad Quidditch weather, was entirely bemused by Hermione's high spirits.

Today, the day before Halloween, Hermione and Alphard were walking round the lake, kicking up leaves and crunching pinecones beneath their shoes. It was a Friday, and for once, Hermione was able to enjoy Alphard's company without constantly watching her back. Most of the students viewed this weather as simply too cold to be outside for leisure.

"Don't you like _anyone_ in your family?" Hermione asked in exasperation. Alphard had just spent the last half hour ranting about his sister's betrothed; Orion Black was their second cousin and, according to Alphard, 'an absolute prat.'

"No," Alphard said immediately. They took shelter in a gathering of trees, shielding them from the castle. Hermione had not been quite this alone with Alphard since Slughorn's party. Scowling into the distance, Alphard flopped down on the grass. Having just finished Quidditch practice, he was still in his Quidditch uniform. Privately, Hermione could not help but admire how he looked in his Quidditch robes. She sat down next to him gingerly, hugging her legs to her chest. "Wally's a bitch. She deserves Orion. And Cygnus is the worst of the lot." He wrinkled his lightly freckled nose, but shot her a grin. "They'd absolutely _despise_ you." Hermione couldn't help but grin at the delight in his voice.

"Why?"

"Well, you're not from a Pureblood family, are you? Else I'd know your family. And you're a Gryffindor—that's unacceptable. You're outspoken and kind of rebellious."

_If only Ron and Harry could hear that,_ she thought as she laughed with Alphard. _Bookworm of Gryffindor, outspoken and rebellious? HA. _"As long as they leave me alone, we get along well enough, I guess," Alphard continued. He crossed his arms behind his head and stared up at the sky. Hermione looked down at him. "Wally just wants to marry for money, of course. Not too bright, luckily, else she'd be as dark a wizard as Grindelwald." They were steering into a direction that they had been avoiding for the past month, but Hermione's curiosity won out and she could not bring herself to change the subject.

"I thought all Slytherins appreciated the Dark Arts," she said carefully. Alphard was smirking now.

"Appreciating something and practicing it are two very different things, 'Mione. I'll admit, the creepier Hexes and stuff like that really fascinate me…but I'd probably never _use_ them on someone….unless they were my enemy or something. But Walburga and Cygnus are a little different. If they had the brains, they'd Hex our own mother."

He was chuckling to himself. "Not that that bitch wouldn't turn around and do the same thing," he added offhandedly. Hermione shuddered involuntarily. _What must growing up in _that_ household have been like? _

"I guess you're the brain of the family?" she asked lightly, smiling down at him. Alphard scoffed.

"Duh. By far, I'd say. My mother's as dim as Wally, and my dad's too busy kissing the boots of the 'right people' to ever really make use of his head. And because I'm not obsessive about that pureblood stuff, they say I'm a blood-traitor."

There was an ugly bitterness to his words that left a bad taste in Hermione's mouth. Alphard turned to her slightly, resting his weight on his elbows.

"What about you?"

"Oh, my parents are very mild-mannered people." At this, Alphard cracked up.

"And they got a firecracker like _you?_ Hilarious."

Hermione's cheeks grew hot and she looked away.

"I'm not a firecracker," she muttered, toying with a bit of grass. "You know, I was always very eager to follow the rules when I was little. I _became_ rebellious, but I wasn't born that way. I was always the tattletale in school."

"Why did you turn 'bad?'" His tone was cheeky. Hermione smiled to herself, remembering her first adventures with Ron and Harry.

"Got mixed up with the right crowd." She could not entirely mask the somberness in her voice. She leaned forward, crossing her legs and shredding a dry, orange leaf. Alphard sat up slightly, placing his hand on her knee.

"Hey. Don't think about sad stuff, okay? I get the bad feeling that this stuff with Grindelwald is going to be getting us down plenty in the near future. No need to do it ourselves." He gave her a lopsided grin and Hermione returned it. Then, he glowered darkly. "And no thinking about that other guy," he warned, leaning forward and planting a kiss on her cheek.

"I wasn't," she protested honestly.

"Good."

Alphard held her chin and tilted her face towards his, and pressed his lips against hers. This was her reasoning for avoiding being alone with him too much: Alphard was literally incapable of keeping his hands to himself. And when they did kiss, even though Hermione enjoyed it, feelings of doubt and guilt lingered for a long time afterwards. His hand, slightly calloused against the soft skin of her jaw, moved to her hair. His tongue flickered against her lips, and nerves surged in her. Did she want to deepen the kiss? They had not kissed like this since Slughorn's party, and even though Alphard had not mentioned it, she knew his frustration at their lack of physical contact was mounting. She was confused—but perhaps no one was ever completely certain about a kiss? Alphard rested his weight against her, gently pushing her back down on the ground.

Slowly, she began to relax. His touch was rough but sure. No awkward, clammy hands groping at her—and the contrast to her previous experience was a welcome one. Her guard slid down as she felt him dig his fingers into her hip. She _liked_ Alphard. She liked him a lot. So why couldn't she simply relax?

Unsure of herself, Hermione wrapped her arms around his neck. The skin on the nape of his neck was burning up. _I like someone who really likes me. _It was what every girl dreamed of, and yet… Her heart began to hammer against her ribcage as he slid his knee in between her legs. The hand that had been on her hip was moving slyly to her leg, which was bare because she was wearing her knee socks and the standard-issue pleated skirt. In spite of her inward battle, the way their lips slid against each other was satisfying in a way Hermione could not put words to. His tongue was slick in _exactly_ the right way. In the same way that it had happened after Slughorn's party, Hermione began to melt into the kiss. She too felt overheated despite the chilly air.

His weight against her felt nice and safe, his shoulders were lean and lightly muscled. There was unmistakable heat between them at their hips. When they broke apart to breathe, Hermione let out a tense, shuddering breath. Alphard's lips twisted into a grin against her mouth.

"You're always so nervous," he murmured. His fingers were light as they trailed up her thigh, moving under the hem of her skirt. Hermione jerked backwards and regretted the action. Alphard's face fell.

"I…" she began, looking away. "I'm inexperienced—really inexperienced," she continued, her voice quavering, "and…well…"

"I have a reputation," he finished for her in a flat voice. Hermione swallowed. The truth was, his reputation _did_ bother her somewhat, but she hated to admit it. It wasn't her business to ask about it, and it wasn't her place to judge him. Instead she shook her head, still unable to meet his eyes.

"I wouldn't know about that, but… well, you're very confident, and maybe this stuff isn't a big deal to you, but it is to me."

She heard Alphard let out a sigh. Dusting himself off, he moved to sit next to her. Hermione noticed his motions seemed stilted, like he was in pain. She shot him a curious glance. His cheeks were flushed and he was scowling again.

"Next time," he began, sounding like he was struggling to master his irritation, "Mention this stuff _a little_ sooner, Hermione. Or you'll kill me."

"Kill you? What do you mean?" she was worried now. Alphard let out a coarse chuckle and shook his head.

"You know, when you said you were inexperienced, you _meant_ it. Merlin, you're innocent as a baby."

Hermione's cheeks flushed indignantly.

"I am _not_ completely innocent!" she sputtered. Alphard was laughing full-out now. "I just don't really…" she faltered. "What will kill you, anyway?"

Alphard let out a heavy sigh, though she could tell he was still highly amused.

"Forget it," he said lightly with a grin. For a moment they sat there, as though waiting for something. Finally, Alphard stood up. He held his hand out to her. "Come on. It's getting late, and your legs are bare." He helped her stand, and in awkward (but not angry) silence they returned to the castle.

* * *

><p>That night, Hermione nearly missed her opportunity to spy on Tom and his group of Death Eaters. She had been lying on her bed, examining the Marauder's Map as she let her thoughts wander, when something caught her eye. Heading on the path towards Hogsmeade were Tom and the others, including Alphard. Not wasting a second, Hermione donned the Invisibility Cloak, took the Marauder's Map and her wand, and crept out of Gryffindor tower.<p>

They were heading towards the Hog's Head. In the distance, Hermione saw them. She could even hear their laughter. Hurrying along while gingerly avoiding anything that might crunch beneath her feet, Hermione strained her ears. What were they laughing about?

Uncomfortably, Hermione noted how Tom always seemed to keep Alphard closest to him. They seemed more like equals, and less like leader and follower. Still, she had seen Tom order Alphard around on countless occasions…though he had always made it clear to the young Dark Lord that he didn't appreciate the orders.

With Hermione trailing a few meters behind them, the Death Eaters entered the dodgy pub. As it was a Friday night, through the little windows Hermione could tell it was packed. She'd have an easier time of listening in now, at least. Her footsteps wouldn't be heard, so she'd be able to keep the Invisibility Cloak on. Waiting until someone left the pub, Hermione slipped in just before the door banged shut again. The Death Eaters had taken residence at their usual table, with the other patrons shooting them nervous and intrigued looks. Hermione couldn't blame them. Tom was regaling them with some story—judging by his poorly done impressions, it was most likely about Slughorn—and to see him talk was mesmerizing. Abraxas Malfoy returned to the table, bearing what looked to be large glasses of Firewhiskey. Hermione was impressed. She could barely handle a few butterbeers, but a glass of Firewhiskey would have done her in immediately. Still, they were all tall, healthy teenage boys in their prime. They probably burned the alcohol off in a matter of minutes.

In fascination, she watched as they toasted to something—at that precise moment, a hideous woman that might have been a banshee let out a howl—and then each downed their glasses. She crept closer, careful to not trod on any toes.

"…As I was saying, the little piggy just squealed his head off. Cried for his mother. And then…" Romulus Lestrange made a gruesome squelching noise as he pounded the rickety wooden table with his fist. Hermione shuddered as all of the boys burst into laughter.

"Not exactly a little piggy, is he, though?" Alphard piped up after their laughter had died down. This set them all off again.

"He's your cousin, Black," said Tom lightly, giving him a nasty grin. Alphard scoffed.

"Yeah, yeah, but we're all related anyway, right? It's what happens when you try to keep your family pure."

"I'd rather be inbred than a Mudblood, though," said Avery with an ugly sneer. The boys all agreed and Hermione's stomach gave a great lurch. _Well, you've gotten your wish, _she thought angrily, glowering at Marcus Avery from beneath the Invisibility Cloak. _You're a big, dumb brute—but at least your blood is pure! _

"But that Macmillan girl you're fooling around with…never heard that last name, have we?" Malfoy added, as though desperate to be included in the conversation. All of the boys except for Tom rounded on Alphard, looks of disgust and disbelief on their faces. Alphard's expression darkened and he stared moodily down into his empty glass.

"Sod off," he said flatly. "Or I'll Hex you so bad that you'll miss even the ugly mug you have now. And you know I'll do it."

"Besides," Tom interrupted. Hermione noticed how they all suddenly gazed at him, listening intently. "They're not fooling around anyway." Hermione scowled. What was he talking about? The boys erupted into evil snickering as Alphard's glower deepened.

"Augusta not looking so bad from this side of things, eh, Black?" Avery teased, sneering. "At least she was a Pureblood and knew her place."

Hermione stood rooted to the spot, both intensely curious and intensely afraid to hear Alphard's response. But he never spoke, for Tom interrupted again.

"Augusta is intolerable," he said dryly. "I don't blame Black for choosing someone of questionable heritage over her. Whenever we have patrols, it's near impossible to not just turn around and Hex her to death. She never shuts her stupid trap."

"Neither does Macmillan," Avery bantered. "She disagrees with everything you say in class."

"At least it's entertaining," Alphard said heatedly. "The girls at this school are all gossiping trolls. At least she's got a brain."

Hermione felt torn; she was both pleased that Alphard was defending her, but his comment about the other girls at the school was infuriating.

"And not much else, sadly," Avery shot back. He continued to disparage her, but Hermione was beginning to doubt her ability to stop herself from revealing herself and hexing Avery. She turned and went to leave, but in her anger she stepped on the banshee's foot. The banshee let out another horrible wail before screaming that someone had stepped on her foot. Panicking, Hermione hurried towards the door, hoping to slip out. But no one was entering or leaving, and when she glanced back at the table of Slytherins, the other boys were laughing at the banshee…but Tom was looking at the door very shrewdly. Her adrenaline pumping through her veins, Hermione seized the chance. A large man that might have been half-giant stepped in front of the door, and as quickly as she could, Hermione slipped out, though over her shoulder she saw Tom rising out of his seat.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ Hermione furiously berated herself as she darted down the main road of Hogsmeade. She came to the edge and hurled herself into a copse of trees. Outside of the Hog's Head, Tom and Alphard had stepped out, looking around, with the other boys at their heels.

"Someone was listening in. I'm positive," Tom was saying, squinting into the night. "They can't have gone far. Let's search the trees over there."

"But how? I didn't see—" Malfoy began, but Avery waved his wand and Malfoy was silenced. Her stomach squirming, Hermione tightened the Cloak around her body. She edged backwards, trying to hide herself among the bramble. Alphard was approaching, his wand out.

"Who's there?" he demanded harshly, edging into the forest. Hermione held her breath, and as silently as she could, stepped backwards again. The leaves rustled and she froze, standing stock-still. "Show yourself or I'll use the Cruciatus curse," he added, pointing his wand in different directions and continuing in. Hermione had to stop herself from gasping in shock. _Alphard? How could you? _

His wand pointed at the place where the leaves had rustled, Alphard spoke in a low voice. "Crucio."

She was shocked that she was calm enough to use a nonverbal spell appropriately in this instance. _Protego,_ Hermione thought, and the Cruciatus curse bounced away, nearly hitting Alphard in the process. He blanched. Tom came up behind him, looking just as shrewd and levelheaded as he had in the pub.

"There's definitely someone here," Alphard explained. "The leaves rustled—"

Just then, a loud bang was heard from the main street of Hogsmeade, and then a scream.

"You prat!" a strangely familiar voice bellowed. Tom and Alphard looked over their shoulders, and Hermione followed their gaze to see Malfoy quivering under the beady stare of a girl of about eighteen, standing on a doorstep in her dressing gown. Even with her hair mussed and her dressing gown ruffled, Minerva Mcgonagall looked quite formidable. "Ah, Abraxas," she greeted coldly. "Good thing it was you that hit my window; at least your father can pony up for the repairs."

Cheering inwardly at McGonagall, Hermione used the distraction to her advantage and took off deep into the forest.


	20. 20: Mon Cœur S'ouvre à Ta Voix

Bad Romance

Author's Note: Well…you all asked for more Tomione action. And I think I delivered, but let me know. After this chapter, I'm going to pick up the pace of the story. Oh yeah...one of you guys mentioned that 'Macmillan' is a magical name. I was under the impression that Ernie Macmillan was Muggleborn…not sure about this. If he is a pureblood, my bad! But I will not be changing it, at least not until after this story is finished and I begin making revisions. But thanks for pointing that out!

PS: a lot of you have commented on Hermione's reluctance to destroy all of the Horcruxes ahead of time. This will be dealt with as the story goes on, so please hang on to your seats :)

Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! it's pretty lighthearted and, IMHO, kind of…sexy? I dunno!

And finally, thanks for all of the kind words about the hurricane. As it turns out, my town (and indeed, my state) was pretty okay after all was said and done. Hope you guys are all safe and well!

Chapter Twenty: Mon Cœur S'ouvre à Ta Voix

Hermione had only just barely made it back inside the castle without being caught that night. Exhausted but also exhilarated, she got up the next morning and went down to breakfast, joining Geoffrey and Rupert.

"You look like hell," Geoffrey observed as he dumped sugar onto his cornflakes.

"Insomnia. Happy Halloween, by the way," she added. As much as Hermione enjoyed classes, she was far too tired to accomplish any learning today. Luckily it was Saturday, and Halloween to boot. As she watched the boys wolf down their breakfast with almost indecent enthusiasm—truthfully, the only way to a boy's heart really was through his stomach—something that had been lingering on the edge of Hermione's worries came back to her. Geoffrey and Rupert would be the perfect ones to ask...the problem was that she was a teeny tiny bit scared to ask it.

"Happy Halloween to you too. Are you going to be a proper Gryffindor and go to Hogsmeade with us?" Geoffrey replied, raising his eyebrows so high they nearly disappeared into his mop of black hair. Hermione grinned.

"Not sure I'm even going to Hogsmeade. But maybe, yes. Anyway, I actually had a question I thought you two could maybe answer…" she began swirling her orange juice around in her goblet, finding it difficult to meet their eyes. "Just…say you were…well," she paused, her face growing warm, "perhaps…kissing a girl. And she stopped kissing very suddenly in the middle of it and pulled away. Why is it that that might…er…_kill_ a guy?"

At once, Geoffrey spit out a mouthful of milk-sodden cornflakes. Rupert was choking on a bit of toast and had to be clapped on the back by Geoffrey, who was using his other hand to awkwardly mop up the cornflakes and spewed milk.

"H-hermione, are you joking?" snickered Rupert, his ears pink as he recovered from his choking fit. Hermione fidgeted with her napkin.

"No, I just don't understand, and I didn't know how to find the answer in the library," she retorted hotly. Geoffrey and Rupert began chuckling heartily.

"That's not exactly something one would find the answer to in the Hogwarts library," said Geoffrey dryly. He let out a sigh before leaning in closer and lowering his voice. "I can't believe I'm explaining this to a seventeen year old girl," he confessed. For once, Geoffrey Potter was blushing. "Look. Guys…enjoy kissing. A lot. And…oh bloody hell, I can't do this." He sat back in his seat, raking a hand through his hair. Rupert was still laughing.

"And yet…somehow, I'm not entirely surprised that she doesn't know," Rupert said in between fits of laughter. Hermione was growing indignant now.

"I just don't understand! No need to be prats about it!"

"Well, _I'm_ not going to be responsible for ruining your innocence." Geoffrey resumed shoveling spoonfuls of cornflakes into his mouth. "…Although for someone so clever, I can't believe you can't figure it out on your own," he added thoughtfully. Hermione was becoming quite irritated by the boys' superciliousness, and when she went to the library to do some work, it was a relief to be away from them. The pair had kept looking at her and breaking down in fits of hysterics and it was entirely infuriating. So busy being indignant was Hermione that she stormed straight into Tom Riddle.

"Are you _ever_ not in the library?" Hermione snapped before she could stop herself. Still, she bent down and helped Riddle pick up the books she had knocked out of his hands. Her stomach gave a great lurch when she noticed that they all had something to do with making oneself invisible. Concealing her distress, Hermione scowled up at Riddle as they stood. Tom was regarding her with his usual air of indulgent amusement mixed with curiosity.

"I could say the same for you," he said lightly, setting his stack of books down on a nearby table. "Happy Halloween, by the way. Is that your costume? It's quite terrifying," he added with a grin. Hermione's scowl deepened, and she pushed past Tom. For a moment she involuntarily relished the feel of his lean chest under her hands, but shook herself out of it.

"Sod off," she retorted acidly. "Not everyone can have perfect hair all the time." To her irritation, Tom had the gall to follow her as she set to work searching for a particular text for her Arithmancy essay.

"So you think my hair's perfect then? You're making me blush, Hermione." She even looked up, though Tom was as pale as ever, and his smirk deepened when their gazes met. What color _were_ his eyes? In this light, they appeared a very dark blue, though sometimes she thought she had seen flecks of emerald or hazel. For a moment she forgot to supply a retort as she got lost in his eyes. They were fringed by dark lashes, just noticeable enough but without giving him a feminine quality. It was hard to picture them as red, slitted like a cat's eyes. "What?" he cocked his head to the side.

"S-sorry." She looked away and recovered quickly. _Might as well be honest that you were staring…_ "What color are your eyes, anyway? I can't tell."

"I guess they're blue," Tom said indifferently with a shrug. He crouched down beside Hermione. "Looking for Evangelinius Vance's book on the number seventeen?" With one long elegant index finger, he tipped a book out by its spine. "A most boring read, if you ask me. Better to just ignore Isopseph's advice and read Eldridge Brookleby's book." He repeated the motion and tugged a book from the shelf above them. Shoving it at her, he sat against the shelf and stretched out his legs. Hermione noticed that, for once, he was not wearing his robes. It was customary for students to doff their robes on the weekends and go in mostly Muggle clothing, but she had never seen Tom out of his Hogwarts or dress robes. He was wearing the slacks that were part of the uniform as well as a sweater of the deepest, darkest midnight blue. He might as well have been modeling the sweater it looked so good on him. Feeling rather warm, Hermione accepted the book and sat down properly, having resigned herself to the fact that Tom was going to hang around for a bit. She flicked through it before looking up at him again.

"Thanks," she said shortly. Tom grinned at her.

"No problem. You might as well get your work done sooner…more time in Hogsmeade with Black. Or do you call him Alphie now?" he winked at her a bit sarcastically. Hermione hit him with the book and he laughed. "What? Everyone knows that Hogsmeade is the ultimate destination for a date."

"Do you take lots of girls on dates there, Tom?" Hermione asked shrewdly, now looking through the book again. She compared the two books and grudgingly accepted that Tom was right: Brookleby's book seemed miles more useful than Vance's.

"Maybe. You sound upset. Jealous?"

"No more jealous than you are, Tom," Hermione quipped, now returning the book recommended by Professor Isopseph to the shelf a bit reluctantly. Butterflies were beginning to flutter in her stomach, though she could not say for certain why. Tom scoffed.

"I have no need to be jealous…especially considering how _tense_ and…well, _frustrated_ Black seems lately." His tone was highly insinuating. Without meaning to, Hermione snapped the book shut, her head jerking up to look at Tom. His arms crossed over his chest, he was smirking at her, clearly waiting for some sort of reaction.

"You're a prat," she said coldly. "You're just trying to get a rise out of me."

"Yes, well, it is one of my favorite activities, if not my most favorite," Tom admitted with a sigh. Then his wicked grin graced his lips. "And the color that you blush is my favorite shade of pink."

Hermione looked down, letting her bushy curls hide her face.

"A prat. A complete and utter prat," she mumbled. She heard his soft laugh, and then, a rustle of fabric came with a rush of his scent. His cool fingers came in contact with her chin as he forced her to look at him, their faces inches away.

"Come now, Hermione, don't look away and deprive me of my favorite color," he chided quietly. Hermione scowled.

"Well, now that I know that your favorite color is pink, I have a much better insight to your personality," she hissed scathingly. Unexpectedly, Tom was laughing again.

"Actually, it's green," he said matter-of-factly. "A very dark green."

Strangely, Hermione first thought of Harry's eyes.

"How very Slytherin of you," she said coolly. "Too predictable though."

"Oh, and I'm sure your favorite color is so unexpected? Let me guess: light blue." His fingers were still on her jaw, his touch satisfyingly scorching. Roughly Hermione pushed them away. Rather tellingly, her cheeks flushed. _Dammit. Why do I have to blush so easily? _It was one of the things that she hated most about her appearance…and that was on a long laundry list of grievances.

"Can you read minds now?" she snapped.

"No. Nerdy girls always like light blue. Haven't the faintest clue as to why, but there you have it." He shrugged before busying himself with toying with the sole of her flat. "And really, Hermione: uniform even on a weekend? On a _date_, no less?"

"Stop obsessing about my date with Alphard—which may or may not happen," she ordered, somewhat regretting how tetchy her voice sounded. It was mostly due to the fact that she had noticed how unappealing her legs looked, with the skirt of her uniform so long, her knobby and slightly scarred knees poking out from under it, and then her calves covered in the dark grey knee socks. It was embarrassing to have Tom so close to them. She had never before given much thought to her legs; now she wanted to beat her head against one of the shelves. _How could I have ever been around Ron or Alphard looking like this? _ "Besides…you're wearing part of the uniform," she pointed out in a forced offhand voice.

"_I'm_ not going on a date today. You know, you are dating one of the most coveted male students at Hogwarts. One would think you'd truss yourself up a bit, what with all of the competition," he chided, running a finger along her knee sock and giving her a look of feigned deep disgust.

"Alphard likes me for who I am," she shot back, her skin tingling and shivers running up her spine at the contact. She began to feel breathless when he tugged on a lock of her hair before giving her a devilish grin.

"I suppose you're right. And, truthfully, a schoolgirl outfit never is quite something a man would complain about." At that, he flicked Hermione on the bare skin of her knee—_why_ was such a strange, silly gesture so electrifying?—before rising. His hands shoved into the pockets of his slacks, he began to walk away. Over his shoulder, he called: "Good luck today. See you later, schoolgirl."

Hermione hated herself for the distinct sense of loss she felt as she watched him disappear round the corner.

* * *

><p>As Alphard had Quidditch Practice, Hermione accompanied Geoffrey and Rupert into Hogsmeade that day. In the cold and blustery afternoon, Hermione had wrapped herself in her own traveling cloak. Feeling especially self-conscious about her legs now, she had changed into thick black tights instead.<p>

"So…ever find anything on your little question in the library?" Rupert asked, waggling his eyebrows lasciviously at her. Hermione glowered at him. Geoffrey was riding slowly on his broomstick alongside them, once in a while speeding up to circle them.

"I didn't look," she sniffed just before catching sight of Alphard out of the corner of her eye. They were passing the Quidditch pitch. She watched as he circled overhead the Slytherin team, amusing himself by catching the Snitch and then letting it go repeatedly.

"Showoff," Geoffrey muttered. Alphard could not see her from here, sadly, so she did not bother waving. Up ahead, Tom Riddle was surrounded by his usual crowd sans Alphard. Hyacinth Parkinson was screeching with laughter at something Tom had said. _Just as revolting as her descendent, _Hermione thought, filled with disgust.

Hogsmeade had outdone itself in honor of Halloween. Hilarious and sometimes genuinely creepy decorations spilled out of every nook and cranny. All of the shopowners and landlords were dressed in costumes, and it turned out to be quite fun. Hermione followed Geoffrey and Rupert as they showed her around, pretending to be entirely new to Hogsmeade. Hermione noticed that they had walked past Tingling Spines, the bookshop owned by Minerva McGonagall's father, several times quite needlessly. Up ahead, Geoffrey kept raking a hand through his hair as though to fix it. Rupert confided with a resigned sigh that Geoffrey was hoping to catch a glimpse of Minerva.

Honeydukes was packed with Hogwarts students. Even Tom was there, packing crystallized pineapple into a box along with several other boys. _That's right; it's Slughorn's favorite. _Rupert and Geoffrey were excitedly showing Hermione some of the more creative confections—such as cockroach clusters—when they got distracted by a toffee that made Geoffrey's teeth stick together magically and Rupert's tongue literally twist in his mouth. Laughing, Hermione attempted to save them, but the boys just eagerly tried more of the toffees. Rolling her eyes, Hermione turned to look for a normal bit of chocolate, when for the second time that day, she smacked into Tom.

"Not a cockroach cluster fan?" he asked sympathetically. Hermione snorted. "I don't like them myself," Tom admitted. "I don't like most sweets, in fact, but I will say that the Honeydukes chocolate is the best. Have you had it?"

The shop was so roaring with people that their conversation felt decidedly private. Hermione shook her head; it wouldn't do for her to say she'd sampled Honeydukes' chocolate. Tom grinned before peering into his bag of purchases. _Most likely filled with Slughorn's favored candy… _but, to her surprise, Tom pulled out a small square of what looked to be rich, dark chocolate. "Here." Before she could stop him, Tom pressed the chocolate to her lips. Awkwardly, Hermione held up her hands, attempting to push his away and eat the chocolate on her own, but inadvertently opened her mouth.

For an instant, she felt his fingertips brush her lips. His dark eyes—they looked green now—flicked down to her lips and then back to her eyes again. "What do you think?"

Hermione felt pleasantly, achingly warm. He drew his hand away much too soon and the spell was broken.

"It's good," she admitted weakly, reaching up to brush whatever chocolate remained from her lips. "Let me buy you some; I don't want to waste what you bought." Desperate to hide her fiercely red cheeks, Hermione turned, but Tom grabbed her shoulder, grinning.

"No need. Everyone should try Honeydukes' chocolate," he said nonchalantly before returning to his group of Slytherins, who apparently had been staring, though when Tom rejoined them they forgot all about Hermione. Now that she looked around, Hermione saw that Geoffrey and Rupert had also seen the exchange, for they were watching her with great interest. Hermione glanced toward the Slytherins again. Tom was involved in making fun of Malfoy, who had fallen for a cockroach cluster from Avery. And then her stomach gave a great, painful swooping sensation when she saw that someone had joined them, and he did not look happy at all. Alphard, still wearing his Quidditch robes and carrying his broomstick, was staring at her with a hard expression that unnerved her.

Feeling sick, Hermione gave a short wave and a tight smile. Alphard smiled back, but it did not reach his eyes, and he turned back to his fellow Slytherins. What was more disturbing was how Alphard glowered darkly at Tom's back, though when Tom had turned to greet him he mastered himself and nodded with a blank expression.

"What just happened?" Rupert was at her side now, with Geoffrey weaving his way back to her. Hermione felt like her insides had frozen as she turned away from Alphard and Tom, and back to the Gryffindors.

"Not sure, actually," she admitted. She followed Rupert and Geoffrey out of the store, and was glad to get to the Three Broomsticks. She needed a butterbeer to wash the taste of chocolate out of her mouth. Never had the sweet confection sickened her this much. Unfortunately, there was no way she could get rid of the memory of the scorching feeling of Tom's fingertips brushing against her lips.


	21. 21: Hallow's Eve

Bad Romance

Author's Note: I meant to have this up last night, but instead, I went out to a bar-crawl. In retrospect, Monday night was a bad night to do this. Also, I start this chapter when they're still in Honeydukes, because I forgot to add some dialogue from the last chapter.

And when I finished writing this chapter, I literally squealed out loud. Hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it :)

Chapter Twenty One: Hallow's Eve

Hermione could not believe that Alphard was giving her the cold shoulder. Across Honeydukes, she repeatedly tried to catch his attention, but he was ignoring her so skillfully it was like it was his occupation. Rupert had finally recovered from his shock and was grinning.

"You should have seen Hyacinth Parkinson's face. If looks could kill..." he shook his head. Hermione glowered and spared a glance back at the Slytherins. They were leaving; Alphard looked straight ahead as he stormed out of Honeydukes. Behind him, Tom sauntered out, leading his crowd, but just as he was passing over the threshold looked back at Hermione. His typical sly, wicked grin was playing across his lips and he winked at her before pushing the door open. Hermione felt like she had been filled with rabid butterflies. She pressed a hand to her stomach to quell the surge of nerves and turned back to the Gryffindor boys, exhaling hotly.

"Do you think he was trying to upset Alphard?" she wondered aloud after they had paid for their candy and were making their way to the Three Broomsticks for a butterbeer. Geoffrey burst into rather callous laughter. They had reached the Three Broomsticks. When he opened the door, a blast of warmth fell over their faces, and eagerly the trio trooped into the packed pub.

"Do you _think?_" his voice dripped with sarcasm. "If my girlfriend had been fed chocolate by Tom Riddle, I'd be pretty upset too."

"You can even identify with Black for once, Geoff. Minerva fancied Tom like mad. Even if she did get with you, I reckon she'd still carry a torch for Riddle," Rupert pointed out, still laughing a bit. After this, Geoffrey seemed quite sulky, and didn't speak to Rupert until well after they had paid for their butterbeers and sat down.

"What's going on with you and Black, anyway?" Geoffrey asked rather gruffly. Hermione got the impression he was feeling embarrassed at having acted sulky. She shrugged.

"I thought we were dating? But now who knows."

"You know...you might not want to hear this, Hermione..." Rupert began hesitantly. His ears were turning pink. "...but I think, to the rest of the world, it looks more like you and Tom are dating."

Hermione choked on her butterbeer; Geoffrey handed her a napkin rather tactfully.

"Me and Riddle? No way," she sputtered, feeling her face and neck grow warm. Rupert shrugged; Geoffrey was eyeing her shrewdly. He didn't make any remarks, for once, but just watched her carefully as Rupert continued.

"I mean, you guys always have this sexually charged banter during classes. Everyone knows how he interrupted you and Black after Slughorn's party-"

"That _didn't happen,_" Hermione interrupted in a hiss. Rupert frowned.

"Well...what did happen, then?"

"Alphard and I were having a discussion, and Riddle came looking for Alphard, because he wanted him to be there while they confronted that guy Crabbe about something," Hermione said matter-of-factly, fidgeting with the napkin sodden with butterbeer. Geoffrey snorted.

"They were confronting Bradwicke Crabbe?" he sneered. "Whatever for? Talking to that guy is like trying to have a conversation with a brick wall."

"Sounds like a lousy excuse to me," Rupert said loftily. "I'm beginning to think that Riddle doesn't like you and Alphard being together."

"But that makes absolutely no sense!" Hermione exploded. "Why _me_? I'm just an awkward, bookish Gryffindor. I don't even have a respectable heritage!"

"I was thinking the same thing," Geoffrey agreed heartily. Hermione shot him a nasty glare, to which he responded with a cheesy grin and a thumbs-up. It was so rare to see Geoffrey with a smile on his face, even a fake one, that Hermione was momentarily taken aback by how much he suddenly resembled Harry. She shook her head and the moment passed once Geoffrey's grin had faded.

Their bellies warmed by several butterbeers an hour later, Hermione followed the boys out of the cozy pub. On their way back to the castle, the boys were dragged to the Quidditch pitch by several fellow Gryffindors looking for a pick-up game, and Geoffrey forced Hermione to sit in the stands and "act like a proper Gryffindor." Wishing she had her scarf and a book, Hermione perched in the blustery stands, watching Rupert fumble much as Ron usually did in Quidditch. Geoffrey was much more daring and playful now than during a match, and took every opportunity to swoop up or down and catch the Quaffle. Hermione missed Harry and Ron so much at this moment, watching the boys play Quidditch, that her eyes began to burn with tears. She did not cry, but the urge to do so was nearly overpowering. She busied herself instead with shouting encouraging cheers for Rupert, who clearly needed any help he could get. His lanky frame was not ideal for Quidditch, apparently.

"Aww, they have their own little cheerleader," someone said acidly from behind Hermione. She glanced behind her, startled, and saw Alphard with his hands shoved in the pockets of his Quidditch uniform. His expression was venomous.

"If you don't have anything nice to say, then don't say anything at all," Hermione said, hating how her voice sounded so high and quavery. Alphard smirked and sat down heavily next to her.

"I was merely congratulating the Gryffindor team on their new cheerleader," he sneered. "Though I wouldn't hedge my bets on you; you might just turn around and cheer for another team."

"Alphard, I don't know why Tom did that in Honeydukes," Hermione said waspishly, staring resolutely up at the Quidditch game.

"You could have stopped him!"

"I tried to, and then it was over and he walked away. I have no idea _why_ he did that, but you should be taking issue with him, not me. You're acting like a prat!" Hermione's cheeks warmed with anger. She chanced a glance at Alphard. He was glowering at the pitch rather darkly.

"You refuse to have any kind of physical relationship with _me_, but then you go and let Riddle feed you chocolate."

"Any kind of physical relationship?" Hermione cried, filled with outrage. "What do you call what we did by the lake?" She blinked back hot tears. Alphard scoffed, still looking out at the field.

"I had graduated from that kind of play by the time I was fifteen, Hermione," he sneered. "That's childish, immature stuff—and it's not _real._"

Hermione could not even form words she was so angry and hurt. She stood up suddenly, her fists clenched but trembling.

"It's real to me," she said hotly. Alphard seemed surprised by her reaction and was staring up at her a bit nervously. "But if it's nothing important to you, you can just forget ever talking to me ever again. I was very forgiving of you, especially after you showed such insensitivity towards my feelings and situation. But this is just ridiculous!"

"Hermione—"

Hermione did not listen to what Alphard was about to say. She turned on her heel and stormed down the rickety stairs that led up to the Quidditch stands. She saw Tom and his gang walking back to the castle; she had so little desire to see his beautiful smirking face that, without really having any specific direction in mind, Hermione began stalking back to Hogsmeade. She heard the clatter of hurried footsteps banging down the stairs, but she ignored it, and broke into a run down the path. Other students were staring at her on their way back to the castle. She ignored them as well.

_Ron would never have done something like this,_ she thought, and yet, that made her feel worse. Would Ron have done something like this? Would he have become frustrated if she had resisted him? Was this exclusive to Alphard, or were all boys like this?

Hermione blindly went into the Hog's Head. Aberforth was, as usual, polishing glasses with a filthy rag. Today, however, he was talking to a witch with black hair pulled into a bun; the hair was too short for the bun, and hunks of straight hair came away, giving a ragged look.

"One butterbeer, please," Hermione ordered briskly when she stepped up to the bar. The witch turned, revealing Minerva McGonagall. She was apparently irritated that Hermione had interrupted their conversation.

"H-hi," Hermione said nervously to her. McGonagall, despite being fifty years younger than Hermione knew her, was nearly as intimidating as her older self. A Ministry badge glinted on her cloak.

"Hello," she said rather shortly before turning back to Aberforth. "As I was saying, you'll want to keep an eye on them. That boy broke a window of my father's shop. I know they gather here, so let me know if things get worse."

Hermione accepted the butterbeer that Aberforth handed her, and she shelled out a few Sickles for him. Taking a seat at the bar close enough to continue eavesdropping, Hermione pretended to be very interested in the filthy grime of the bar.

"They never sound like they're doing anything wrong," Aberforth was saying gruffly. Hermione knew he was wary of her listening in. "Did you get it repaired?"

"Oh, it was a simple _reparo,_" Minerva said matter-of-factly, giving an impatient wave of her hand. "But my father's getting a bit on in his years, and I can't stay home every night to make sure there isn't any sort of trouble."

"Minerva," Aberforth began a bit heavily. "Maybe you should let it drop about _that boy." _

"This has nothing to do with Tom," Minerva sputtered, her face becoming pink. A hunk of black hair escaped from her bun and fell in her face because she was shaking her head so vehemently. "I simply am concerned about my father's health—"

"If Aodhagan McGonagall can't take care of himself, I'd be very shocked," Aberforth interrupted in a quiet voice. "Your father isn't some idiot, Minerva. He can take those brats any day of the week and you know it. And next time I catch you spying on that funny Riddle boy in here, I'm kicking you out. I can't afford to have customers that don't pay."

Hermione's jaw dropped. Did Minerva have an Invisibility Cloak too? And _spying_ on Tom Riddle?

"You're preposterous," she said heatedly. "I would _never—"_

"I understand," Aberforth said gently. In this moment, he seemed shockingly like his brother. "He's a handsome bloke, and he's brilliant as well. But you're not at Hogwarts anymore. It's time to move on. You've got a good job at the Ministry, and once that moron Dippet is out of Hogwarts, you ought to go back and teach."

"Don't be ridiculous," Minerva snapped. "I would make a horrible teacher."

"Up to you. At any rate, either buy a drink or get out of my pub." Aberforth's tone was rough but he seemed relatively cheerful. Minerva sighed rather irritably and left the pub with a last wave to Aberforth. When she opened the door, someone was coming in at the same time. Hermione saw her freeze as though paralyzed by a Basilisk's stare. Tom was standing on the threshold, giving her a charming and warm smile. Hermione heard Aberforth sigh heavily. Tom greeted McGonagall; she did not say anything audibly but merely mumbled and looked down at the ground before dashing out of the pub. Tom was, for once, alone. His dark eyes alighted on Hermione and he smiled even more broadly. Coming in from the chilly air, he looked magnificent. His cheeks were rosy from the cold, and his eyes were twinkling. Still, Hermione scowled at him.

"You again," she greeted as Tom slid onto the barstool next to her. He ordered a butterbeer before giving his full attention to Hermione.

"Been looking for you. Black's in a right state and won't talk to me. I hope it wasn't something I did?" Concern etched into his angelic features. Hermione scoffed and played with the condensation that had dripped off of her glass of butterbeer and onto the counter; the surface was so filthy that her fingertips came away dripping with foul greyish mud.

"You know very well what you did. You're vile," she spat. Her bad mood had returned upon seeing Riddle and it was only plummeting. This was mostly due to the fact that she was hating herself for how her stomach was filled with anxious butterflies at the sight of him and her skin became pleasantly warm. She remembered the feel of his fingertips on her lips and she pressed her mouth into a thin line, taking to glaring down into her grubby glass.

"You didn't seem too upset at the time," Tom parried in a low, barely audible voice. He leaned on the counter, his elbow nearly grazing hers.

"I was too surprised to react," Hermione retorted. She heard Tom's soft laugh; something about it felt _intimate. _Or maybe she was just losing her mind due to all of this absurd teenage angst. Wanting to laugh at herself, Hermione glanced at him. He was smirking at her. "What do you want?" she finally asked.

"I was worried about you," Tom said innocently, looking injured. "You just ran off alone, didn't you? That never bodes well when a girl does it."

"Sod off," she ordered before downing the rest of her butterbeer. She slammed the glass on the table before standing up. "I just wanted some time to myself, but it seems like that's impossible."

"It's dark out; of course that's impossible. I'm not about to allow a pretty girl to walk about by herself. What kind of man would I be?" He sounded so genuinely concerned, and yet... Hermione met his eyes. She tried her best to picture them as how they would look in half a century, because it made it easier to not fall for his charm.

"I'm independent," she said, and walked out of the pub, though Tom was on her heels. Indeed, night had fallen. It looked like most of the Hogwarts students had already returned to the castle.

"But it's Halloween," Tom protested, falling into stride with her. "When all of the scary monsters appear." His voice was laced with humor; reluctantly, Hermione smiled to herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tom giving her a once-over. "No wonder you had a fight with Black; you're wearing tights. Now you truly look like a nun."

Hermione glared at him; Tom merely cocked his head to the side and grinned, raising his eyebrows at her. "What? Just giving you a few helpful hints!"

Up ahead, she could see students who were also walking back. They looked back at her and Tom, and her stomach lurched. What would be the gossip around the school _now? _Everyone, it seemed, had seen Tom giving her the chocolate. And now they'd be seen walking back together. Hermione had a bad feeling that the fangirls were about to get even more vicious. "I'd appreciate it if you just left me alone. That'd be most helpful," Hermione said sourly, still eyeing the students further along the path. Tom followed her gaze and sighed. "Sometimes it seems like you're intentionally sabotaging what I have—er, _had_—with Alphard," she added.

"Of course not. You're just pinning it on me. In reality, I think you'll find that you're _letting_ every little thing sabotage what you had with Black. Instead of greeting him normally in Honeydukes, you acted guilty...therefore revealing to him that you found what I did significant. Maybe if you hadn't acted guilty, Black would have forgotten his jealousy. You've only known him for a month and a half; you don't understand how his emotions come and go with the sun."

He was studying her carefully now. Even in the cool air, she blushed and turned further away. She drew her cloak around her shoulders tighter, less to shield herself from the cold and more to protect herself from Tom's heavy gaze.

"You're wrong," she said a bit feebly. Tom scoffed.

"No. I'm just bringing to light the truth," he said simply. "Because you're too much of a coward to accept it on your own."

"What truth?" Hermione demanded harshly. They stopped walking now; up ahead she could heard students at the Halloween Feast in the Great Hall. She wished to be in there, safe from Riddle's penetrating stare and from the uncomfortable things he was saying. The corners of his lips were beginning to curl in just the slightest hint of a smirk.

"I think, Hermione, when you see a boggart you see yourself acknowledging that you are, in fact, susceptible to the same sort of desires that every girl your age is. And that no matter how much you try to fight it, you aren't cool and driven by your staggering intellect...Deep down, you're driven above all by your own desires."

Hermione drew in a breath sharply. She picked up her foot, about to step back, but Tom leaned in, his lips nearly touching hers. "I—" she began, but stopped when it caused her lips to move against his. There was that scent of his again, so tantalizing that she felt weakened and dazed. Their lips, noses and foreheads were just barely brushing. She forgot about how chilly the night air was, she forgot about what Alphard had said...indeed, she forgot even why she had traveled back in time.

"Happy Halloween, Hermione," he murmured against her lips, before turning and walking into the Great Hall without so much as a backward glance.


	22. 22: Giving Chase

Bad Romance

Author's Note: Argh. I originally had this chapter written two days ago. Yet I could not bring myself to post it. I thought about it and realized that other things needed to happen first, so here we are.

Chapter Twenty Two: Giving Chase

For the first time in her life, Hermione was at a loss for what to do. Consumed by the caustic memory of Tom's lips brushing against hers, she skipped dinner and went straight to her bed. She lay there for hours, tossing, turning, yet unable to sleep. She felt like she had been lit on fire. She was restless and incapable of pulling her thoughts away from reliving, over and over again, that feathery soft brush of her skin and his. Why was this— a not even real kiss— so much more powerful than anything that had ever happened with Ron or Alphard? This left her speechless, her skin scorching, and took her breath away entirely.

She even went to the infirmary, desperate for some relief from this glorious hell she was being put through. Madam Plum warily gave her a Calming Draught, and Hermione lay in the infirmary alone that night. The Calming Draught, however, brought no relief. It only lulled her into a stranger state, wherein she drifted in and out of dreams of Tom Riddle. She woke several times that night, convinced that he was there, but she always woke to find herself alone in the shadowy infirmary. The panes of moonlight that fell across her bed reminded her of the night Tom had interrupted her kiss with Alphard. And then that sent her through a loop as she imagined what it would be like to have Tom kiss her the way Alphard had.

She was filled with self-hate. Why did he have such power over her? Why could Tom reduce her to this whimpering mess? She felt like he had invaded her senses, for he was beautiful, and she could not remove the image of his beautiful face from her mind. His smooth, sensuous voice rang in her ears. The scent of his aftershave and skin...was there a more attractive scent? His elegant, pianist's fingers gently probing the rich chocolate into her mouth, and then the bittersweet taste of the chocolate, which she would forever associate with him. And finally, the feel of his lips on hers— a sensation that made it feel like she was burning from within.

It was ruining her plans to destroy him, because desire was clouding her mind. Filled with disgust for herself, Hermione stared out the window at the pale light of dawn, and resolved that she would not allow herself to be flustered by him or enjoy his attention anymore. She would become cool, composed, and untouchable— especially around him. There would be no more flirting, no more close touches, no more private moments. Because deep down, she knew he was only enjoying toying with her...meanwhile, she was sinking deeper into something that she feared she would soon be unable to climb out of. A

That Sunday morning, the first of November, dawned crisp, sunny, and cold. Hermione left the infirmary, bleary-eyed and pale, still wearing her rumpled uniform. She was exhausted and felt like she might be becoming ill. On her way back to Gryffindor tower, she was descending a flight of stairs just as the devil himself was ascending them.

"There you are. I heard Madam Plum saying something about you needing a Calming Draught. I was worried," he greeted, and somehow he was unable to completely mask the wicked grin threatening to break out from behind his worried frown. Hermione felt her cheeks burn. Seeing him was like a swift punch to the gut. _Remember what you vowed to yourself. _

"I think I'm ill," she said coolly before attempting to pass him. He barred her way, clutching the banister next to her.

"Spending too much time out in the cold?" asked Tom innocently as he gently pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. "You do feel quite warm."

"Yes, well, certain Slytherins should maybe leave me alone if I'm ever to have a peaceful moment indoors." She roughly wrenched his hand from her forehead; feeling his wrist in hers gave her a strange quivering that she forced herself to ignore. All of her frustration and confusion were bleeding out towards him. Hermione pushed past Tom, but he stopped her by grabbing a fistful of the back of her sweater.

"Come on, Hermione, don't be like that," he coaxed. "Come get breakfast with me."

"I'm rather not hungry, actually," she said, and broke free of his hold. Without turning back, she walked swiftly down the corridor.

* * *

><p>Tom Riddle was not a person who often experienced confusion. When he did, it was always a disturbing and jarring experience. He also was not accustomed to not getting what he wanted. And finally, he had always been able to charm anyone into doing his bidding.<p>

For these reasons, Hermione Macmillan disturbed him.

In the beginning, she had seemed so innocent, so malleable, so easily swept off her feet. Such a keen mind—and yet how she blushed, at the slightest touch from him! It had initially delighted him.

But then, the morning after he had kissed her... Tom stared at this girl next to him that Monday morning in class, the girl who was a complete mystery to him. Before she had seemed overly aware of his presence, flinching at the slightest sign of movement from him. Now she hardly seemed to notice him. Hermione was no longer laughing at his jokes, no longer becoming prey to his taunts. And the look she had given him that morning before walking away had been a fierce, hard, blazing look that he would not have expected her to be capable of.

_Why _was she ignoring him?

At first he had been amused by it. Girls were flighty; he assumed she would come around soon. Besides, she did look rather cute, when she turned her nose in the air at him and flounced off away from him, bushy curls bouncing along with her pleated skirt. The view of her walking away was not a bad one, for certain. Other girls at Hogwarts may have possessed nice figures, but there was something about Hermione being so completely unaware of her looks that intrigued him. He could still see traces of a nerdy little bookworm preteen—perhaps with crooked teeth and even a bit of acne—but clearly she had never realized she had grown out of that stage. She wasn't a classic beauty, but there was something pleasing about her features. There was something beckoning about how loosely she wore her uniform. She wasn't trying to impress anyone with her looks. She liked people for who they were, and she wanted to be liked for who she was.

In that respect, they were as different as night and day. But that was a technicality; it was, to Tom, painfully obvious that they were one in the same. Hermione was brilliant, and so was he: they were doing themselves no favors by ignoring each other. They deserved to interact, to test each other.

But still she insisted on so resolutely ignoring him! Why?

He resorted to schoolboy tactics. Immature, yes, but highly effective on especially wanton schoolgirls. He had tugged on her hair, kicked her seat, teased her. Each time, Hermione merely cast him disdainful glances and then took no more notice of him.

That didn't work, so he moved on to ignoring her in return. But by Tuesday, that too had yielded no acceptable results. Worse yet was that Slughorn had even taken him aside and deigned to give him advice on girls. Disgusted, Tom nearly Hexed the Potionsmaster, but at the last minute (to Slughorn's favor) deemed it quite unnecessary.

And when Alphard Black had picked up on the silence between Tom and Hermione (for as much as Tom hated to admit it, Alphard too was of quite a keen mind, in spite of his horrid work ethic) he had looked appraisingly again at Hermione.

And that simply would not do.

But how to charm a girl who so fervently refused to be charmed? How to charm a girl who could not be charmed by him, of all people?

...And finally, there was the last and most disturbing question: why was he wasting his time trying to charm her in the first place?

* * *

><p>"Hermione." Hermione ignored Tom's whisper, instead staring up ahead at Professor Vanlandingham, trying very hard to listen to her lecture. A rasping noise, and Hermione saw a little note land in front of her. "Open it," he added. For a few moments, she successfully mastered herself and ignored her curiosity. When she could take it no longer, Hermione reached down and went to open the note. It unfurled into the shape of a flower, its petals wavering.<p>

It was an impressive bit of magic, but no less than she would have expected of Voldemort. What surprised her most was how benign, how gentle and simply beautiful it was. She chanced a glance at him. For once, the young Dark Lord looked actually worried. Unnerved, Hermione tugged on the petals, and the note fell open.

_Yule ball with me? _

Her heart began to thrum in her chest. Instantly she was filled with those pleasant tremors that accompany being asked to go out by a handsome boy. _But he's not a handsome boy, _she reminded herself fiercely. Without looking back at him again, she picked up her quill.

_No. _She simply folded it, cheered by the fact that before her epiphany, she would have felt the need to show off, and tossed it back to him. He caught it, and looked quite crestfallen when he saw her response. Hermione felt a pang of something unidentifiable.

_Why not?_ This time he didn't even bother folding it and just shoved the parchment at her. With the movement came a blast of his scent and, for a moment, Hermione almost forgot herself. She got as far as subconsciously inhaling deeply before she returned to her senses.

_You really can't think of any other girls you'd rather take?_

_No. _

She looked at Tom with raised eyebrows. He arched his own elegant brows in return. The eye contact, after a week of so stoutly ignoring him, made her shiver slightly. For an instant, she recalled the feel of his lips on hers, and infuriatingly, her cheeks began to warm. She looked away hastily.

_What about Augusta? Or that Hyacinth girl? _

_I want to go with you. _

Damn him. Damn him, and all of his charm and good looks. How could he anticipate so accurately the sorts of responses she might want to hear?

_I happen to have a date already,_ she lied quickly. When she pushed the note across the desk to him, their fingers brushed. Something sparked deep inside her. _Just vestiges of the old interest. It's okay to still have those,_ she assured herself hastily. But it did little to assuage the onslaught of scorching memories that surged up inside of her. _Why can't I feel such a spark with a normal guy?_

_You're lying. I already asked around. You're not going with Black. You're not going with Potter or Weasley. Who is it? Or else, why won't you go with me?_

Class ended without Hermione having to answer. The moment it ended, she shot up out of her seat and hurtled out of the classroom before Tom could demand any answers from her.

Yet the rest of the day, she kept daydreaming of going to the Yule Ball with him. She told herself to stop, but the images refused to stop simply appearing in her mind. What would he think of the silvery robes she had bought? What would it be like to dance with him, to place her hands on his svelte shoulders? He was probably a fantastic dancer, knowing him. And then, she would be able to lean into him, breath in his scent, hear him whisper against the shell of her ear.

Because of these wonderings, Hermione stormed off to Gryffindor tower, determined to force either Geoffrey or Rupert to take her to the Yule Ball. Unfortunately, when she rounded the corner, she smacked straight into the only person she had been more studiously avoiding than Riddle: she smacked right into Alphard himself.


	23. 23: Desired Constellation

Bad Romance

Author's Note: WOW. I am so honored by the lovely responses I got for last chapter. I was actually thinking no one would like it, as I wrote it half-asleep last night after spending like seven hours at my cousin's wedding and reception. Y'all are such awesome reviewers! Your critiques are always helpful and respectful, your praise is always heartening, and you guys point out stuff I would never have caught.

IMPORTANT: Speaking of things I would have never caught, person (I wish you had left a signed review so I could have PM'd you this, but I guess it's good general knowledge anyway) made a very good point: I stated that there would be the Yule Ball taking place this year. I was under the impression that it was independent of the Triwizard Tournament, but I guess it goes along with the tournament? In any case, thanks for catching that (my Potter knowledge isn't what it used to be) but I think for now I'm just going to continue calling it the Yule ball, just for the sake of keeping things straight. When I go back and revise this story, however, I will change it (along with Hermione's fake surname).

You guys are the best! I'm so lucky to have such intelligent reviewers!

Enjoy this chapter!

Chapter Twenty Three: Desired Constellation

"Alphard," Hermione greeted after she had managed to unstick her throat. For all of her cool logical courage in the face of Tom Riddle, she now felt as though she had been attacked from behind. Alphard's expression was, as usual, impenetrable. What was he thinking?

"Her— Macmillan," he replied with a nod. The sudden switch to her surname was unsettling. They had not spoken in a week. In classes, it had been easier to ignore the tension between them. But alone together, all of the hurt feelings, confusion, and frustration seemed to bubble to the surface. "I see you're on your way back from the library, so I won't deduct points from Gryffindor," he added before making to continue on his way.

"Wait, Alphard." Hermione had spoken impulsively; now she didn't know what to do. Alphard turned to look at her questioningly. She let out a sigh. "Can we...talk or something? This whole ignoring each other thing we're doing is just...stupid, and immature." She felt slightly deflated at his lack of reaction, but then, quite suddenly, he exploded.

"Immature? You think _this _is immature? Hermione, your views of relationships are pretty questionable. In _my_ opinion, flirting with other guys is the immature and stupid thing," he said heatedly. Immediately, Hermione lost her composure.

"You're such a prat!" she cried shrilly. "Why don't you take this up with Riddle? I never _asked_ him to do that thing in Honeydukes!"

"You didn't tell him off when he kissed you. That's right, I saw it," snarled Alphard, stepping closer. Hermione froze, but then her anger returned a hundredfold.

"Once again: I had no control of that situation," she hissed, also stepping closer. "And for your information, we didn't actually kiss. I don't know what in Merlin's name that was, but it was not a kiss. I don't know what Riddle's playing at, but I'm choosing to ignore it."

"Yeah, because you choose to ignore every physical advance that anyone makes on you. You're cold blooded and frigid," retorted Alphard. "You say that our kissing meant a lot to you, but it didn't look like it. You looked like you hardly noticed that we'd been kissing!" He threw his hands up in the air and stalked away a few paces before turning back to her. "You're like a little girl or something. You just want the flirting and the cute stuff, but none of the _real_ parts of a relationship."

Hermione felt like he had slapped her. Hot tears sprang to her eyes and she blinked furiously until they went away.

"Well," she began, her voice a bit unsteady, "You think you know all about how girls work. You think you have so much experience. But maybe you only know how your sycophantic fangirls work. Maybe you don't know a single thing about real, normal girls...girls who don't blush and faint every time you catch that stupid Snitch. You're not as smart or clever as you think you are, and I'm disgusted at myself for ever having thought you were anything special—or worth letting go of my feelings for Ron so quickly."

Alphard looked stunned. He stared, his jaw agape slightly, and without another word, Hermione turned and walked to Gryffindor tower, her heart raw and stinging.

When she got to the tower, Augusta and Geoffrey were locked in a fierce argument about something, and Rupert was standing next to Geoffrey, his face as red as his hair. When the portrait swung shut behind her, they turned to look at her and everything went coldly silent.

"Just go do your stupid patrols duty and we can forget this ever happened," Rupert practically growled. Hermione noticed Geoffrey was still brandishing his wand...as was Augusta.

"Fine. I wouldn't want to be in here any longer anyway...now that the tower's contamination has returned," said Augusta icily. She pushed past Hermione rather roughly, leaving her to stare at the boys in confusion.

"That seemed...cheery," Hermione greeted them a bit awkwardly. The scowl had disappeared from Rupert's face and now he looked a bit sheepish. He hastily stowed away his wand, but Geoffrey was still giving her his usual shrewd stare.

"What in Merlin's name did you do now?" he asked her. Rupert made as though to interrupted, but Geoffrey shot him a glare that silenced the Weasley immediately. Hermione's face warmed.

"I didn't do anything, actually," she said defensively. Geoffrey shook his head slowly.

"You must have. Augusta was intending on playing a little practical joke."

The unfairness of everything was beginning to get to her.

"I bloody well didn't do anything! I've had it with these ridiculous girls!" she cried, and collapsed in one of the armchairs. Rupert shot her a kindly grin and sat down next to her.

"You said it, mate," he agreed wholeheartedly, patting her on the shoulder. Geoffrey sighed and dropped down on her other side.

"They are getting a bit absurd," said Geoffrey, staring thoughtfully into the fire. "I think Augusta's problem is that you've got the attention of both Black and Riddle, and she's been after the pair of them for a while now." He rubbed his stubble, still staring into the fire. Rupert snorted.

"Geoffrey rescinded his invitation to Augusta for the Yule Ball," confided the redhead. "After he found out Augusta wanted to Jinx you."

"It's dishonorable to attack someone unaware like that!" exploded Geoffrey. "A _real_ Gryffindor would never have done that. That bitch..."

Hermione was so shocked by their loyalty, and was so shaken by her arguemnt with Alphard that tears began to stream down her cheeks. She wiped them away before Rupert or Geoffrey could see them; she had the sneaking suspicion, however, that they had and were being polite by not commenting on them.

"Thanks," she said in a somewhat watery voice. "I really appreciate all this."

"No, thank _you,_" said Geoffrey. "I would never have known Augusta was such a bitch if you hadn't been here." He shuddered. "I don't get all these girls' obsession with those guys anyway. It's like they're all drinking Amortentia all the time."

"It's terrible and wrong," agreed Hermione, rubbing her face. She felt exhausted and old. "They're like frenzied sheep."

For a moment the trio was silent as they all stared into the fire contemplatively. Hermione was warmed by the loyalty and friendship from Geoffrey and Rupert, and her hurt feelings began to ebb away, leaving a pleasant emptiness.

"Will one of you go to the ball with me, by any chance?" she asked suddenly. "It's okay if you already have dates," she added hastily.

"Eh, I'll go," said Geoffrey with a reluctant sigh. "My mother might kill me if I don't go anyway. Weasley's already going with Amelia Bones. She's a Hufflepuff."

"I can't believe she asked me," Rupert admitted, looking entirely bemused. "But...nonetheless, she's kind of cute, I guess."

For a while they sat together, laughing over the week's events. By the time Hermione went up to her bed, she was pleasantly exhausted. She got her photo of Harry and Ron out of her trunk and lay in bed, staring at it by the light of her wand. Even though she valued Geoffrey and Rupert's friendship, nothing could replace the bonds she had had with Harry and Ron.

She found herself staring at the lightning scar on Harry's head. He had so graciously accepted his role in life which had been so forcefully thrust upon him...She wanted to be like him, so valiant and gallant without being consciously aware of it at all. Yet now, more than ever, she was aware of the path she had chosen. Time was crawling by—could she survive another fifty years without them? Already, after a few months, her heart ached for her best friends. Without them, she felt incomplete. She found that her grief still crippled her, after all this time. She still was not quite herself, still not quite as logical and brave as she had always been.

And even though she wholeheartedly believed in what she was doing, she still, occasionally, wished she had been able to die with them. Death was the next adventure—maybe she could have experienced that adventure with her best friends as well. Deep down, she felt that her soul was forever entwined with Harry's and Ron's. The three of them had been _meant_ to find each other, _meant_ to explore and seek and understand the world around them.

She had never before needed guidance: she'd always been able to separate right from wrong. But now, more than ever, she felt she needed guidance. Now, more than ever, she could have used Harry's spirit and Ron's humor.

Harry had always made his bravery and sacrifice look easy. It never looked as though it had been a choice for him. Yet it must have—why had she never asked him? She had taken for granted what he had done, and now, in his position of leading a resistance (however solitary) against Voldemort, she appreciated it all the more.

Giving in to Tom Riddle was the easy thing. But she could not do what was the easy thing—forever she would have to take the path of what was right and true.

* * *

><p>"Who are you going with?"<p>

"Leave me alone, Tom."

In the days that followed, Hermione's interactions with Tom had become a broken record. He would come up with new and undeniably creative ways of trying to oust the information from her, and she was becoming increasingly adept at fending him off. Unfortunately, in Herbology that Tuesday, things took a bad turn. As usual, Hermione and Alphard stood side-by-side, still not speaking. Hermione was still enraged by the things Alphard had said on Friday, and was ignoring him as usual. But she kept feeling Alphard's eyes on her. He was looking at her, and every time she glanced over, he looked away.

They were editing their diagrams of the Devil's Snare, as the plant had grown exponentially. Professor Root kept having to release the students from the Devil's Snare's tentacles. Thus murmurs of "lumos" were continually being uttered, and as the class progressed, people were getting increasingly irritated. Another paper flower landed in front of Hermione. She knew it was from Tom, and with a sigh, she flicked her wand to open it.

_Tell me. Who are you going with?_

Irritably, Hermione scribbled a rather profane order that Tom leave her alone, though she noticed that Alphard had been looking over at her the whole time. She was shocked when he stepped closer and asked her in a low voice, "Who _are_ you going with?"

"Oh, now you speak to me," she said acidly as she lit her wand, driving a tentacle away from her wrist. She didn't look at Alphard, but heard him let out a grumble.

"Maybe," he began in a low hiss, "you said some rude things on Friday."

"Maybe," Hermione imitated, feeling her face warm with her anger, "you're a complete prat and said things that were not only rude, but sexist and destructive. I have nothing to say to you."

"You never have nothing to say," he parried angrily. She heard his quill snap under his fury. "And destructive? I'm only telling you the truth."

"Yes, that you're a typical teenage boy, obsessed with sex," she retorted hotly. Alphard laughed callously.

"If that bothers you, you might as well accept that you're going to be alone forever. There isn't a man out there who isn't obsessed with sex."

Unconsciously, Hermione's eyes drifted to Tom, but she looked away quickly, before Alphard could spot it.

"Some boys have the decency to put others' feelings before their sex drive."

"Some girls have the decency to not lead a guy on," Alphard shot back. "You made it seem like you were interested in actually being with me."

She could tell that some of the other students—especially Tom—were beginning to pick up on their hissed argument.

"I can't help it if we have different opinions of how relationships work," she said stiffly. "This conversation is over."

"No, it _isn't. _Who are you going with? I need to know so I can warn the poor bloke that you'll only act like you're interested and then run off with Riddle," sneered Alphard.

Hermione debated on whether to simply remain silent and ignore him again, but what Alphard said had gotten a rise out of her that she couldn't quite bring herself to ignore.

"Fine. I'll tell you. I'm going with Geoffrey. Geoffrey Potter," she said in a rather high voice. She jotted down some more details as she heard Alphard let out a seething, angry exhalation.

"That idiot? You deserve each other, then," he said in a sneering, icy voice.

Hermione looked up to look at Alphard, but saw Tom looking at her from across the table. He was ignoring what Hyacinth was babbling on about to him, and their gazes locked. He cocked his head to the side, his eyes glittering as though he were feeling victorious. Hermione pressed her lips together, feeling sick to her stomach. Tom's dark eyes drifted down to her mouth, and then to her right, to Alphard. When Hermione looked at Alphard, he was looking at Tom, his face paler than usual, his eyes wary.

What had just happened? Hermione got the sense of some sort of interaction between Tom and Alphard, though she couldn't have put her finger on _what_ had happened. All she knew was that she'd be checking the Marauder's Map quite a bit tonight...and if, by chance, she saw Tom and Alphard's dots together, she would not hesitate to break out Harry's Invisibility Cloak and eavesdrop on the two Slytherins.

There was something menacing and disturbing about the way Tom and Alphard were looking at each other. Hermione was going to find out what the hell it was all about.


	24. 24: Morning Star

Bad Romance

Author's Note: WOW. I am totally blown away by all of the great reviews I got for the last chapter. I still am utterly in shock that this story has had any success at all, as it is a complete experiment and a deviation from my usual shtick in every way for me. It's a HP fanfic, which I've never done, it's pretty dark and romantic, which i also have not really done, and it's mostly dialogue…which is usually pretty painful for me. Those of you who read my Naruto fic, Isekai, can affirm that one especially.

I wonder if this fic will make 1,000 reviews :) That would be exciting!

Another thing that is interesting is how polarized the views of Alphard are. You guys either despise him or adore him. I find this surprising, as I feel like he's one of those characters that is hard to hate or love. Like a normal person, he's got some really good points….and, unfortunately, some big flaws as well.

In my neuroscience class this morning I was not listening at all and instead was drawing Tom, Hermione, and Alphard together :P Hope that I don't fail my classes because of the shiny new toy that is this fanfic for me….

Chapter Twenty-Four: Morning Star

"I just don't understand how he could say those things," Hermione exploded that night as she and Rupert ate in the Great Hall. Geoffrey meanwhile was at Quidditch practice, which he had loudly complained about as it was hailing viciously that evening. Rupert, for once, set down his fork, though Hermione did not miss the longing glance he gave to the beef Wellington dish nearby.

"Hermione," he began gently, "You're new to Hogwarts, so you can't possibly understand. But look at it from Alphard's point of view." Hermione bristled at this. She knew Rupert was intelligent enough to have something meaningful to say, but her nerves were so raw and her temper lurking so close to the surface that she immediately reacted poorly.

"Don't tell me that all boys need sex or something ridiculous like that," she warned, brandishing her own fork as a weapon. Rupert grimaced and shied away from her a bit.

"No, nothing like that. But I mean…if you're recounting what he said exactly as he said it…I don't think he's upset about the sex thing at all."

Hermione paused mid-chew of her roasted turnip to stare at Rupert in confusion.

"He called me a frigid little girl!" she said loudly.

"Yes…but," Rupert paused to glance around before leaning in closer and lowering his voice, "Look at this way: Alphard Black is an extremely good-looking, athletic, and smart guy from one of the most prominent pureblooded families. Everyone wants to be in with the Blacks, right? And Alphard is smarter than his siblings. He's the best Seeker that Slytherin has had in ages. And, to boot, he's easier to get along with than most Slytherins. He doesn't join in on the whole bullying war between Gryffindor and Slytherin….well, except for with Geoffrey, but I think that's a more personal issue."

"Are you trying to sell him to me or something?" Hermione asked sarcastically, narrowing her eyes at Rupert.

"No! I'm trying to explain, because I've noticed a few things over the years. Anyway, Alphard ought to be the most popular guy at Hogwarts. He ought to have girls falling all over him. He ought to be the most loved by the professors. In short…he's set up to have the perfect life. He's going to have an enormous inheritance, his last name alone is worth buckets of Galleons, and with his Quidditch capabilities and his brains—not to mention his connections—if he doesn't land an excellent job with good pay and a lot of attention, I'll eat my wand."

"So?"

"So," Rupert continued patiently, "Yes, he did get some popularity. But there was one thing that has dogged him for all of his time at Hogwarts. He's smart, so he knows not to draw attention to it…but who is his best friend?"

"Riddle, I guess?" Hermione said with a shrug, though she was beginning to see where Rupert was going with this.

"_Exactly._ And who is Riddle? He's just a little better looking than Alphard. He's just a little more charming than Alphard. He's just a little smarter than Alphard. And you can bet he'd probably be just a little better at Quidditch, too, if he cared to try. Riddle's even a bit taller than Alphard."

Privately, Hermione had always been exasperated by how boys compared each other's heights as though it were a measure of character. But what Rupert was saying made perfect sense. Slowly, her understanding of the Slytherin Seeker was sharpening, like a photograph coming into focus.

"And even though Riddle hasn't got the fancy last name or the inheritance…it makes him more impressive and more endearing, because Riddle's come from _nothing._ He's an orphan who never knew his parents," Hermione added thoughtfully. "Next to him, Alphard looks more like a rich brat than a total catch."

"Right. And wouldn't you be aware of all that? Wouldn't it drive you crazy? Girls go for Alphard, but they go for Tom Riddle first. Alphard gets what Tom discards, and deep down, I bet he knows it. And then…the mysterious, brilliant, cute new girl comes in and even though she's gotten closer to Riddle than any other girl has…she seems to prefer Alphard. If you were Alphard, wouldn't that delight you? Finally, someone who he probably deemed worthy of him has picked him first."

Hermione's stomach twisted uncomfortably.

"But he said that he was mad because I…well, I wasn't putting out," Hermione contended, her face becoming hot. Rupert scoffed.

"Convenient excuse, don't you think? But Alphard's been having sex for ages, and everyone knows that. Even if he does get Riddle's sloppy seconds…that's still not too bad, right? Pardon the lewd terminology, and all."

For a moment, Hermione narrowed her eyes at Rupert, who had the decency to look embarrassed, but then they burst into laughter. "So if it's just that Alphard wants to, you know…" Rupert shrugged, blushing briefly, "do _stuff_, it's not like if you don't put out, no one else will. In fact, ever since you came along, he's been even _more_ popular with the ladies. And yet, as far as I've heard, he's ignored them completely. Which is really unlike him and really unusual. So, in his mind, he's making certain…let's call them 'sacrifices.' Meanwhile, I think Riddle has become really used to his dynamic with Alphard, and is probably annoyed that the first girl he feels is on his intellectual level is making a point of going for Alphard. See how there's a big problem between them now? And see how Alphard's in a position where he can't really do much about it? He's mad, and he's found a good sham to hide behind, which is the supposed sex problem."

Hermione, strangely enough, recalled Harry's obvious angst in fifth year when he had not been chosen as a Prefect and yet Ron had. Harry had never wanted any of the fame and fringe benefits he had gotten, and Ron had always sort of resented Harry for getting everything all the time. But the moment Ron stepped into the spotlight and pushed Harry out…it had clearly upset Harry. Hermione wondered if perhaps that sort of resentful competitive streak was yet another thing of Riddle's that had been transferred to Harry when the curse had rebounded. She frowned. What Rupert was saying made sense, certainly, but she couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this situation.

"Have you ever considered becoming a psychologist?" she asked. At Rupert's confused expression, she sighed. "Never mind. You've got a point though."

"See? Meanwhile, now that you're ignoring _both _ of them…." Rupert shook his head, grinning. "It's kind of hilarious, actually."

"Glad my love life is entertaining to you," Hermione said dryly as Rupert began laughing and nearly choked on a mouthful of beef Wellington and mashed potato. "I always fought with Ron, my ex-boyfriend who passed on," she thought aloud, staring at the Slytherin table unconsciously. "We had some nasty rows. But…he always apologized. So it was okay."

"Right, but was he a popular Quidditch player who had been charming the pants off of girls for years?" Rupert asked doubtfully. Hermione giggled. Ron indeed had been a Quidditch player—however abominable he had been at the sport—but the only girls whose pants he was charming off were probably her and Lavender Brown.

"Perhaps not," she agreed lightly.

"It comes down to this," Rupert said after washing his food down with pumpkin juice, "Black has probably never had to apologize for anything in his life. I bet he doesn't know how. And he's probably a bit…well, heartbroken, really…because to be honest, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you and Riddle were going at it like bunnies or something. I mean…when he gave you that chocolate, it just seemed like we were all intruding on foreplay or something."

"Rupert!" Hermione scolded indignantly, her cheeks practically bursting into flame.

At that moment, Geoffrey dropped heavily onto the bench next to Hermione, drenched and shivering in his Quidditch uniform, bits of hail stuck in his untidy black hair. He was scowling and used his napkin to mop off his face before commencing wolfing down the rest of the beef Wellington, much to Rupert's apparent dismay.

"Hey Potter, wasn't it a bit graphic when Riddle gave Hermione that chocolate?" greeted Rupert, shooting Hermione a roguish grin. Geoffrey stopped stuffing his face reluctantly.

"Pornographic, really," he agreed before diving back into his dinner. It was a rare sight to see Geoffrey Potter, who usually had fairly good table manners for a teenaged boy, talk with his mouth full.

"There you have it, Hermione," said Rupert with a smirk. Hermione buried her blushing face in her hands.

"I didn't _ask_ him to do it!" she protested, peering at Rupert from between her fingers. Geoffrey clapped her on the back with his free hand.

"It's okay. If you marry Riddle, then your children will be brilliant and at least he'll contribute some good looks to the blood," consoled Geoffrey rather thickly, as his mouth was still stuffed with potatoes. Hermione let out an indignant squeak, which for some reason amused the boys so heartily that they had to pause stuffing their faces to laugh hysterically.

"Just kidding," Rupert said with a cheery wink before bursting into laughter again.

"Yeah, I mean, you do clean up well," said Geoffrey as he wiped his face with his napkin. "Oh, and my mother wants to meet you." At this, the Potter boy looked quite sulky. "She demanded to know who I was going to the ball with, and when I told her, she insisted that she meet you. So at the next Hogsmeade weekend, we'll all meet her at the Three Broomsticks. I tried to tell her you weren't my girlfriend, but she's all excited. Dunno why, but I guess it must be because Garret is off gallivanting about the world so she can't obsess over him."

"Garret?"

"My older brother. He's an Auror and is hunting Grindelwald supporters," Geoffrey explained, eyeing a treacle tart and then piling a large helping of it onto his plate. "He chucked his girl when she demanded that they marry…but between you and me, they'll end up together anyway."

_Maybe Garret is James Potter's father…not Geoffrey, after all,_ Hermione thought as she stared at Geoffrey.

"I don't mind it at all. I'm just grateful you're taking me," Hermione said with a smile, shrugging her shoulders. But Geoffrey wasn't listening; Hermione followed his gaze and saw what had caught Geoffrey's attention: Alphard and some of the other Slytherin Quidditch players were sidling up to them. Alphard was also in his uniform, thoroughly soaked, and regarding Geoffrey with an insolent smirk.

"Ey, Potter, nice Wronski Feint you did there…or would you call it more of a Wonky Faint?" The Slytherins behind Alphard burst into raucous laughter.

"How much did your daddy shell out for your broom, Black?" Geoffrey retorted coldly. "But wait—it doesn't matter, because even the best broom can't salvage your pathetic flying skills…or rather, lack thereof."

"I bought my own broom, actually," sneered Alphard. It seemed, somehow, like Geoffrey had successfully hit a nerve and Alphard was doing his best to hide it. "I heard Davies destroyed you last Saturday. How does it feel to know that yet again Gryffindor is going to lose the House Cup because of you?"

Geoffrey's face turned an odd shade of puce.

"How does it feel to know Hermione chucked you, most likely because your hair makes you look like a bloody girl?"

Rupert covered his face with his hands and hunched lower on the bench; the Slytherins behind Alphard even cringed back slightly as Alphard's cheeks flushed and his brown eyes sparked with rage. His stance shifted subtly; somehow now he looked prepared to attack. In truth, Alphard's hair _was_ a bit long for a boy, hanging past his ears and curling at the nape of his neck, but it was reminiscent of Sirius and only added to his rebellious image. Secretly, Hermione rather liked it.

"Don't drag me into this, Geoffrey," Hermione interrupted. But Geoffrey was not listening; he stood up, and both boys reached for their wands. They were drawing attention now and students were twisting in their seats to get a look. Predictably, Tom and Augusta came striding over.

"Dueling? Ten points from Gryffindor and Slytherin," Augusta said immediately, brandishing her wand. Still, she glanced at Tom as though waiting for his approval. His dark eyes took in Alphard and Geoffrey, and then roved over Hermione perhaps a bit longer than necessary. Finally, he reached her eyes, and she locked gazes with him defiantly.

"They weren't dueling," she said to Tom, "Just a bit of…er, friendly sportsmanship between opposing teams," she finished rather lamely. Tom's mouth twitched and then he burst into his usual sensuous, baritone laughter.

"Oh, Hermione, if that's what you call—what was it?—'friendly sportsmanship between opposing teams' I'd hate to see what your definition of dueling is," he said silkily, his eyes twinkling with utter amusement. He turned back to Geoffrey and Alphard and looked down at them rather disdainfully. "I don't approve of my House sinking to the pathetic level of inter-house bullying," he said coldly to Alphard. Hermione watched in awe as the air seemed to crackle with hate-filled electricity between the two Slytherins. But Alphard caved quickly and turned away.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"And I agree!" Augusta cut in hastily, glancing at Tom again before rounding on Geoffrey. "I do not approve of inter-house bullying either!"

"No, but you're completely fine with bullying your own House," Geoffrey retorted hotly. Hermione was beginning to see where Harry had inherited his fierce temper. Immediately, Tom and Alphard looked to Augusta.

"What exactly does he mean by that, Augusta?" Tom asked curiously, cocking his head to the side. Now Hermione was well aware of all eyes in the Great Hall on them; desperate to end this ridiculous scene, she interrupted.

"Just talking about how sometimes Augusta seems a bit..er, _distant_, to us!" she said in a rather high voice. Geoffrey looked like he was about to protest, but she stomped on his foot under the table to silence him. Tom and Alphard were now looking between her and Augusta, and for reasons unknown to Hermione, she stood up quickly. "Well, that was a delicious dinner. I'm quite tired now, so I think I'll head off to bed," she said, feeling her face heat up. She clumsily snatched her bag and fled the Great Hall.

Alone in the corridors, she was able to wonder about her behavior. Why had she stopped Geoffrey from informing Tom and Alphard of Augusta's behavior? It was a mystery, even to her. But somehow, she just had the feeling that it was better to keep the two Slytherins in the dark about that. Her stomach tied into knots from anxiety, she ran the rest of the way to Gryffindor tower.

"Snow fairies," she said to the Fat Lady quickly before launching herself in. She went straight up to her four-poster and lay there, still clothed, staring at the canopy of her bed and wondering what in Merlin's name was the matter with her.

A short while later, she heard footsteps coming up the stairs. She had the curtains drawn, so she could not see who it was.

"Er…Hermione?"

It was Augusta's voice. Hermione debated pretending to be asleep, but there was something in Augusta's voice that seemed unusually meek and piqued Hermione's curiosity. She sat up and hesitantly pulled aside the curtains. Augusta was blushing furiously, standing by her own bed.

"Yes?" Hermione asked, feeling rather ridiculous about lying in bed, still with her shoes and robes on. Augusta hardly seemed to notice, however, and was looking down at the carpet.

"That was…" she paused. "That was a very…well, thanks, anyway. For not making me look bad…in front of them."

Hermione blinked at the Gryffindor Head girl in complete surprise.

"Um…no problem," she replied awkwardly.

"I thought you were going to tell on me then. It's what I would have done. I know I haven't been very nice to you…" Augusta confessed. It sounded like this apology was giving her great difficulty. "I like Tom a lot, and I have history with Alphard," she admitted reluctantly. "And I guess…well, I guess I just got jealous, because they both like you, and I just sort of told myself you were probably a bitch anyway, because you kind of seemed like it, always acting like you know everything."

"It's no problem, Augusta," Hermione said flatly. "Really, it isn't." Even though she appreciated the apology, she did not appreciate what Augusta was saying. Augusta looked up at her, her eyes a bit wet.

"Just so you know," she added in a watery voice, "Alphard is a really nice guy. You just have to get to know him." At that, she turned, picked up her bag, and left the tower hastily.

Hermione sat there for a moment, nonplussed, but with a jolt recalled that she ought to have been watching the Marauder's Map for a confrontation between Tom and Alphard. But when she looked at the Map, she saw Alphard was in the Slytherin commons, and Tom was patrolling the corridors and was soon joined by Augusta.

She slumped against her pillows, still staring at the Map in thought, when she heard a strange tapping sound. Peering out from the curtains round her bed, she saw a tawny owl furiously trying to get in. Hermione jumped up and let the owl, which was soaked from the freezing rain, into the room. It let out an irritable hoot, tumbling into the room and spraying icy rainwater everywhere as it flapped frantically, finally coming to rest atop Hermione's bedside table.

Attached to its talon was a note, addressed to her.


	25. 25: Tangled Up In Blue

Bad Romance

Author's Note: Sorry this took so long. I've been having a crappy week and am looking forward to the weekend where I will be relaxing. On the bright side, it seems my diet is _finally_ working! I went down a size in my favorite pants! (dances)

Chapter Twenty-Five: Tangled Up in Blue

The tawny owl hooted impatiently, and when Hermione shot it a glower, it let out another irritable hoot before swooping over to the window and pecking at it viciously.

"Alright, already!" Hermione said in exasperation and let it out. She turned back to the letter, which was addressed to her in overly elegant, spidery handwriting that Hermione did not recognize.

_Dear Miss Macmillan,_

_Ever since my dear brother Geoffrey informed me of your accompanying him to the Yule Ball, I have been simply dying of curiosity, as has my mother. Little Geoffrey has described you as an extremely bright but hardly attractive girl, and my mother and I have been speculating about you for days! Please do us the enormous pleasure of meeting us in the lovely little town of Hogsmeade for a delightful lunch at the Three Broomsticks this Saturday, because I think if my curiosity about you is not satisfied soon, I might simply die! Please, please owl me your response as soon as possible; suspense is not something I do enjoy!_

_Yours,_

_Gareth Potter_

Hermione blinked, overcome with shock. Wasn't his name Garret? Why did he sign it Gareth? Garret/Gareth had added flourishes that ended in large spirals to every word and had underlined every adjective several times, making the letter somewhat difficult to read. Shaking her head, Hermione got out a fresh slip of parchment and agreed to meet Garret/Gareth and his mother on Saturday. In comparison to his overly embellished letter, hers looked plain and a bit terse. With a shrug, Hermione added a little smiley face at the end of her name, but then decided the smiley face looked rather absurd. But Garret/Gareth would probably not notice anyway.

It was early yet, so Hermione left Gryffindor tower and headed to the owlery to send her letter to Geoffrey's brother. Curfew had not arrived yet, so she felt quite comfortable about strolling along the corridors. She glowered as she reflected on Geoffrey's description of her. Was she really so awful to look at? She stopped in the girls' bathroom along the way and stared at her reflection. A heart-shaped face, a wide mouth, a snub nose dusted with freckles, brown eyes, and brows that perhaps could have used some grooming stared back at her. Of course, there was the usual epic cloud of light brown frizz around her face. It wasn't anything stellar, for certain, but why was it that she had always been picked on for her looks? She cracked a forced smile, revealing her straight white teeth. Her smile became genuine when she thought of how Harry and Ron had reacted when she had realized she'd reduced the size of her front teeth. At least she wasn't buck-toothed anymore. She shuddered to think of what Geoffrey might have said if he'd seen her before fourth year.

She was average height, and since she'd been at the castle for the past few months, had returned to average weight. Everything about her body was average, save for her rather skinny ankles. But average wasn't so horrible, was it?

"You're being rather critical for no reason," she assured her reflection. There was a splash, and Moaning Myrtle rose up out of a stall and peered at her through her thick, pearly glasses.

"You're the girl that Tom Riddle likes," she greeted Hermione gloomily before sighing loudly. Hermione's cheeks flushed automatically.

"He doesn't like me," she sputtered indignantly. Myrtle rolled her eyes.

"I used to have a chance with him, you know," Myrtle said. "He still comes to talk to me. But now..."

"You're dead," Hermione thought aloud, and clapped her hand over her mouth guiltily. "Sorry! I didn't mean it like that. I just—"

"They never mean it like that. Poor Myrtle. Nobody cares! The love of my life still talks to me, but who cares, because I'm dead!" she shrieked before hurling herself back into the U-bend. Hermione rolled her eyes and jumped aside of the wave of toilet water that was expelled from the stall. She rather preferred the Moaning Myrtle of her own time. At least she was a bit clever about her doom and gloom.

She continued onto the owlery, still feeling a bit critical about her appearance. She'd always had moments like these, where she could not let go of her own insecurity. Usually she dealt with the angst by busying herself with work, but tonight the thoughts kept returning. How could Alphard possibly be attracted to someone like her? Alphard was handsome and had beautiful girls throwing themselves at him. But she was just a plain girl with bad hair and skinny ankles. Self-consciously, Hermione tugged at her sweater to stretch it out before tying her letter to one of the barn owls. It had been so nice, at the previous Yule Ball, to really surprise everyone with her new look. She'd never felt it was necessary to do every day, however, and had always scorned the girls who had bothered with such frivolity.

But at the same time... Hermione let out a sigh and rested her elbows on the railing of the owlery, staring out at the crisp late autumn night. Sometimes she wished she could have more of the confidence that other girls had. Sometimes she wished she could feel cute. She always had drawn her confidence from her intelligence and academic achievements, but just once in a while, she wished she could feel more like a typical silly girl.

"Sending owls? To whom?" She jumped, startled, and turned to see Tom picking his way across the owlery floor. He came to stand next to her and mimicked her position.

"None of your business," Hermione said automatically, shifting away from Tom slightly. He chuckled.

"Always so defensive. I was just being polite!"

They stood there in silence that was not entirely uncomfortable. Hermione still had no desire to let him fluster her, but all the same, he seemed less interested in getting a rise out of her than usual. She looked up at him; he was staring contemplatively at the golden lights of Hogsmeade village.

"You're unusually tolerable," she commented. "What happened?"

"There's the classic Hermione charm," he drawled, still staring into the distance. "I'm rather tired, actually," he confessed. "Patrols is not difficult, but Augusta always talks my ear off and I think the firsties are getting a bit too lax about following the rules." He frowned.

"I would have never thought that Tom Riddle himself could get tired," Hermione said lightly. "What does Augusta talk about?"

"Anything and everything," Tom replied, massaging the bridge of his nose. He did seem tired and lacking his usual energy. Was it all of the effort he was putting into his Horcruxes? "She ought to become a gossip columnist. I swear, if she put half the effort she gives to all of this nonsense into her spellwork, she'd be quite a formidable witch. I think she does it to impress me." His voice had gone cold and flat. It was intriguing to see Tom without as thick a curtain of his normal charm. She was getting a view of him she had never before seen.

"What else is it that's tiring you out so much?" Hermione probed, letting her gaze rest on him. She twisted her body to lean against the stone so she could more easily look at him. Tom laughed softly.

"You look exhausted yourself," he parried, his gaze meeting hers. "I know you're not always doing schoolwork when you're in the library."

"Neither are you," Hermione said immediately. "Sometimes, you're reading romance novels." She was getting nervous; was it wise to reveal that she had seen him reading Sense and Sensibility?

"Am I?" Tom asked, a smile lurking on his lips, threatening to break out. Hermione chewed on her lip before deciding to be honest.

"You were reading my favorite book one day," she said, unable to stop herself from matching his grin with her own.

"For a girly romance novel, it's quite good," he said. "Very well. You caught me. But have you guessed my favorite book yet?"

Hermione let out a sigh. "Why do you care if I guess it or not?" she queried. Tom didn't answer her question.

"I think we'll be dueling in Merrythought's class again this week," he said softly. "You'd better start studying. I'd bet you my wand she'll pair us together. I got a note from Slughorn offering to put in a good word for me with you as well."

"Why does everyone want us together?" Hermione demanded in exasperation. It was a rhetorical question; the answer lingered in the air between them as they stared at each other. For a moment, Hermione felt he might almost-kiss her again. She found herself waiting, praying for it. Her heart began to pound loudly in her ears as they moved imperceptibly closer.

A screech owl let out a shriek and consequently brought Hermione back to her senses. Abruptly she stepped back, away from Tom and his inviting dark eyes.

"Well, I suppose it's time for bed," she said, and turned to leave the owlery, but he reached out and grasped her wrist. She looked back at him questioningly, expertly hiding any hope or fear she might be feeling. "Yes? Can I help you?"

"Why won't you go to the ball with me?" The irritation was evident in his voice now; he really must have been too tired to be able to hide it. She grinned at him, and it seemed to catch him off guard.

"Because I don't want to," she said simply. He opened his mouth to speak, but she whipped out her wand and shot sparks out of the end towards him. In surprise, the Slytherin relinquished his hold on her, but his eyes never left hers.

"Don't want to?" he repeated in clear disbelief. Hermione nodded rather cheerfully and left him staring after her. When she had left the owlery, she nearly let out a whoop of delight. For once, she had surprised Tom Riddle. For the first time, she felt she had gained something like the upper hand.

* * *

><p>"Hardly attractive?" Hermione demanded of Geoffrey the next morning at breakfast when he sat down to join them. Rupert's eyes widened as he glanced between the pair of them. Geoffrey was apparently not a morning person, for he merely stared at her stupidly before locating a goblet of coffee. "And why did you tell me your brother's name was Garret? He owled me last night, you know!"<p>

Understanding dawned on the Seeker's face after he had gulped coffee. Rupert began chuckling, spraying globs of porridge everywhere and earning glowers of disgust from both Hermione and Geoffrey.

"Garret recently decided that Gareth suited his 'elegant' personality more, and has been refusing to answer to anything else," Geoffrey explained irritably, selecting kippers from a platter in front of him. "Why'd he owl you, anyway? And I was just being honest. My mother asked about you, so I told her about you," he added, looking at her disdainfully.

"He wants me to join you guys this weekend for lunch in Hogsmeade, actually," Hermione said after she had returned Geoffrey's look of disdain.

"You know, taking you to this stupid ball is turning out to be more trouble than it's worth. Riddle docked thirty points from Gryffindor this morning because my hair was untidy!" Geoffrey sulked. "And the Slytherins were practicing at the same time as us last night, and three separate times, Black wandered into our side of the pitch and attempted to knock me off my broom!"

"Blimey," said Rupert, shaking his head. "Have you always been this popular with boys, 'Mione?"

Hermione snorted into her orange juice.

"Not at all. And I mean, why do you think that Riddle docked points because of me? Your hair _is_ looking messy, Geoffrey."

Geoffrey gave her a look of such withering disgust that Hermione started laughing.

"It's true though; usually Black and I are on good terms but last night on patrols he bit my head off for no reason," confided Rupert.

"If they Hex me at the ball, I'm murdering you...or rather, I'm unleashing Garret on you. Yes...much worse of a punishment..." Geoffrey's eyes turned starry as he got lost in daydreams. Hermione bristled.

"Unleash Garret on me? He seems perfectly nice!"

"That's what you think," Geoffrey said darkly. "Oh yes, he's very jovial and friendly, and can even act ditzy on occasion. But he's still an Auror...and a damn good one at that."

The boys launched into a discussion of the prior night's Quidditch match and Hermione's thoughts wandered. She felt like she was being stared at, and she was correct: across the Great Hall, Tom was staring at her, resting his chin in his hand, his fingers over his mouth as though he were lost in thought. When their eyes met, he arched an elegant eyebrow, and something in the pit of Hermione's stomach unfurled. She was proud of herself for having caught him off guard the night before, but he still held a certain power over her that worried her. She raised her brow at him as well and saw the corners of his mouth appear from behind his hand. He was grinning at her. Why was it that when he grinned, she too grinned, however involuntarily?

But next to him, she saw Hyacinth Parkinson and a few other Slytherin girls clamoring for Alphard's attention. He said something, and accordingly they all shrieked with hysterical laughter. Hermione's expression darkened. _He's not that funny,_ she thought unkindly. Her eyes returned to Tom. She knew he had seen her distress at Alphard's female attention. She resented him for it; she was embarrassed that she was feeling jealous, especially of Hyacinth Parkinson. Gathering her wits about her again and shaking off the lingering jealousy, Hermione excused herself and decided to, as usual, go to the library before class.

She didn't have a real purpose for being there, but she had had no desire to be confronted with Alphard's popularity any longer. Hermione strolled along the shelves, looking for 'light reading' but not really looking too thoroughly. _I suppose this is how Alphard felt when he saw Tom giving me that chocolate,_ she thought guiltily. She selected a book at random from a shelf and began listlessly flicking through the pages.

Something hard and pointed came in contact with her spine and ran down the length of it slowly. Hermione's muscles tensed; she knew Tom was just trying to startle her.

"Good morning, Tom," she said dryly, slamming the book shut and looking back at him. He grinned and leaned against the bookcases.

"Don't tell me you're upset, Hermione," he chided. "After all, he was only talking to Hyacinth. There's nothing wrong with talking."

"I'm not upset at all," she said coolly. "But I have work to do, so if you would be so kind as to—" she halted when Tom swiped the book from her hands and read the cover with his brows arched in disdain.

"Saucy Tricks for Tricky Sorts?" he asked with a laugh. "I suppose you're saucy." He set the book back on the shelf and winked at her. Hermione crossed her arms over her chest.

"I was curious!"

"Or, you were so distracted by your emotional distress that you picked a random book so that you'd look like you were perfectly fine," he said, smirking and leaning in closer. Hermione reached out to push him away and he gripped her wrists. "So, since Black's now got a date, you don't have to worry anymore and you may simply go with me."

"I told you, I don't _want_ to," she snapped, trying to tug away. He gripped her wrists harder, laughing at her efforts rather disparagingly.

"I find that when you lie, Hermione, you refuse to look me in the eyes and your cheeks become that delectable pink that I so enjoy."

"I find that you're an arse," she said tartly. Tom was laughing again; Hermione tugged more and in their struggle the pair smacked into a bookshelf, knocking over several books and knocking them to the ground. Hermione let out a squeak of pain as Riddle's lean torso smacked into hers. They were a tangle of arms and legs, their faces inches apart. Hermione tried to push him away but he just laughed.

"Good job, my darling," he said sarcastically. Hermione despised herself more than she ever had, for all her brain was capable of was relishing the feel of how hard his chest was, how nice his svelte shoulders felt under her hands, how good he smelled. This close, she could get lost in his eyes...

They froze when they both heard a voice.

"Well...this is _interesting,_ isn't it?"


	26. 26: Undisclosed Desires

Bad Romance

Author's Note: IMPORTANT: this chapter is hot. IMHO of course... and, just so y'all know, 'possessing' and 'loving' are two entirely different things. just as a forewarning.

MORE IMPORTANT: "BananaBrains" left an unsigned review commenting on my use of 'haft to' instead of 'have to.' I thought this was strange, as it would never occur to me to even use 'haft to' but I used find on every chapter and did not find a single 'haft.' So perhaps there is an issue with your browser, or the font you're reading my story in? In any case, thanks for the review, but I felt the need to correct that.

PLEASE REVIEW!

Chapter Twenty-Six: Undisclosed Desires

Over Tom's shoulder, Hermione saw the face of perhaps the last person—save for Ron, Harry, or anyone from her own time—who she would have find her in such a compromising position. Dazed from his scent and the delicious weight of his body against hers, it took Hermione a moment to process what was happening.

"Er...good morning, Professor Slughorn," Tom greeted after clearing his throat. He sat up and backed off of Hermione, brushing himself off and awkwardly shifting some of the books that had fallen. Hermione felt like she had swallowed a pound of Cockroach Clusters, and merely held her hand to her mouth as she used her free hand to prop herself up. She feared that if she spoke, she might throw up. Slughorn looked positively delighted.

"Ah, young love," he sighed jovially, gazing down at them wistfully with tears in his eyes. Hermione and Tom exchanged private looks of nauseation before Tom helped Hermione up. When Hermione had summoned her supposed Gryffindor courage, she spoke hastily.

"Professor, it's not what it looks like—" she began, but Slughorn cut her off with a grotesque wink.

"Now now, dear, of course it isn't," he said in an infuriatingly insinuating tone, winking broadly again. "I'll just be on my way now...I saw nothing, of course! I know how secretive you two are about your courtship!" At that, the Potions master practically pranced away from Tom and Hermione, humming loudly. It took Hermione a moment to recover from that horrific encounter.

"Great. Just great," Hermione muttered, crossing her arms over her chest and stomping away from Tom in a move that she knew was rather childish. However, she did not care at the moment. The unfairness of it all—for the last thing Slughorn would do would be to actually keep his word and pretend he saw nothing—as well as the frenzy her emotions had been sent into by the close contact with Tom was sending her mind for a spin. She didn't know what to do anymore. All she knew was that she felt like if she didn't get some fresh air, she might melt. She had been rather chilly this morning in her uniform and robes, but now, she felt like she was dying of heat in them. Behind her, Tom let out a long-suffering sigh and placed his hand on her shoulder. She jumped slightly at his touch.

"You know, if you would simply attend the Yule Ball with me, then old Sluggie would cease trying to get us together..."

"I don't want to go to the bloody ball with you!" Hermione exploded, rounding on the young Dark Lord and pressing the tip of her wand to his chest. Never mind how distinctly her body recalled every detail of how said chest felt under her hands. Tom scoffed and batted her wand away. It was doubly infuriating that he seemed hardly affected by what had occurred. Did nothing fluster him!

"Why not?" he badgered her, cornering her against the opposing shelves. "I know you want me. It's written all over your face," he contended fiercely.

Hermione resisted the urge to punch Riddle, and instead narrowed her eyes at him. Inwardly, she prayed for inner serenity.

"You see what you want to see," she said coolly. Recalling Rupert's analysis of the strange friendship between Alphard and Tom, she found herself smirking at him. "You just can't stand the thought of being second to Alphard," she added scathingly. Tom's eyes flashed; for a moment she could have sworn she saw a flash of red and then it was gone. _Damn. Almost flustered him. _He smirked back at her.

"You're too innocent to understand the workings of your own desire; you seem to think that you'd prefer Black over me," he retorted, his voice nearly as low as a whisper. "Your desire was entirely unmatched to Black's desire for you; yet all I have to do is _fall_ on you and look how you react..." At this, he brushed her cheek with his knuckles. His hand was icy cold compared to her warm cheek. She relished the coolness of it instinctively, yet when he pulled away, her body was all the warmer for it. "You're playing a foolish game by trying to lead Black on like this," he chided.

"I'm not leading him on!" she hissed. "And who's to say anything about my desire for Black?"

"Not you, certainly," Tom murmured wickedly. "You only seem to be aware of innocent, childlike flirting. Black is a man now; his emotions are that of a man." He paused to give her a grin that was seductively private. "...And so are mine."

"A man? Either of you?" Hermione asked, drenching her voice in humorous disbelief. She could only cling to her disdain like a lifeline; if she didn't... she might lose track of her goals and submit to him after all. Tom laughed softly at this.

"Well, perhaps not so much on Black's part," he admitted. "You see, Hermione, girls like you—girls that read of tepid romances such as the one of Sense and Sensibility—are afraid of their own sexuality. They pride themselves on their cool intellect, but in reality it's just a safety net. They say they fall for certain types of boys: boys who know nothing of how to charm a girl, boys who are still indeed clumsy, awkward boys at the age of seventeen. They're 'sweet' boys. They're 'nice' boys. Parents have nothing to fear from these boys."

"Are you saying you know how to charm girls?" Hermione asked dryly. How was it that yet again their faces were inches apart? Tom laughed and placed his hands on the shelf behind her, barring her in. Still she forced herself to keep her wits about her; she held her wand towards Riddle's chest threateningly.

"It's safer to fall for a 'nice guy,' isn't it? He'll never hurt you intentionally. He'll only hurt you by accident, when he gives you a 'sensible' birthday present instead of jewelry, or when he doesn't know to please you as well during—"

"Stop it. Just stop it," Hermione ground out. Tom ignored her.

"But girls like you are willing to take that, because it means you'll always have the upper hand. It's you who can do the hurting, it's you who has the power in the relationship. But deep down, you'll always covet the man who can sweep you off your feet, the man who knows _precisely_ where and how to touch, the man that your parents would absolutely despise...You know all of this, Hermione. The girl always should stick with the nice guy, but when given the choice, she runs to the man who will take her dancing til dawn and then will ignore her for weeks."

"I hate dancing," Hermione said tartly, narrowing her eyes further at Tom. His half-smirk was infuriatingly sexy. "Besides, aren't you supposed to be the nice guy? You're Head Boy, you get perfect grades, you always have the perfect clothes. Alphard's less of a nice guy than you, but you seem to be arguing that you're the real bad boy here."

"You've turned me into one in your mind by resisting me so studiously from the very beginning."

"I thought you were just asking me to the Ball," Hermione said, pressing her wand harder into Tom's chest to counteract the fluttery feeling she was getting.

"I am," he said sweetly with an expression of pure innocence.

"Well, I'm turning you down, and that's just the way it is."

"Is that what you want?"

Hermione was silent for a moment as she stared up at Tom. Why was such a demon gifted with such an angelic face and such a silver tongue? He was as dangerously hypnotic and enticing as the serpents he so revered. He was both the serpent as well as the forbidden fruit, somehow.

"Yes."

"You say that with such certainty, but look how you touch your hand to your mouth, look how you avoid my eyes," he whispered triumphantly. Abruptly, Hermione pushed him away.

"Just leave me alone," she ordered, surprised and impressed at how little her voice shook. She left the library, and instead of going to class, Hermione the Bookworm deigned to skip class. She promptly went to the nearest girls' bathroom and collapsed against the pleasantly icy tile wall. She was frustrated, she was angry, she was... well, she didn't know how to put words to one of the emotions. It was a strange tugging in her abdomen, a tremor in her chest, like she had misstepped on the stairs and nearly fallen backwards. Only it was somehow a pleasant sensation. How did that work?

Why was she so out of breath? Why did her hands shake?

Her head lolled onto her shoulder as she relived reluctantly how it had felt to be pressed under Tom's weight. She felt fidgety, overheated, and more irritable than she'd ever felt in her life. Tom's words continually replayed in her head.

_"But deep down, you'll always covet the man who can sweep you off your feet, the man who knows precisely where and how to touch, the man that your parents would absolutely despise..."_

Oh, what a sinner she truly was.

* * *

><p>Enraged by how unsettled he had left her, Hermione's newest goal was to truly fluster Riddle. But how? He had seemed like he'd been alarmed at her behavior in the owlery, but she knew he was far too cunning to fall for the same trick twice. He was prepared for her indifference now.<p>

But how could she hoodwink Lord Voldemort himself, the master of hoodwinking and trickery?

No satisfactory plans came to mind. During classes, her thoughts would wander and she'd imagine using some of his own tricks against him: running her wand up _his_ spine, brushing her lips against _his._ But somehow that seemed less like the art of surprise and more like giving in to him. Which was painfully and sorely tempting as well. She dared not picture what might follow if she were to give in to him, mostly because she knew that therein lay dragons. Imagining herself with Lord Voldemort was the point of no return, and she had to resist it as much as she possibly could.

* * *

><p>It was quite late; well after midnight. Tom entered the Slytherin common room, which was blessedly empty, and slumped into one of the chairs and stared into the dying fire. He was tired often lately; perhaps it was time to take a rest. He held up his right hand to the light, on which his uncle's precious ring was, and studied it in the flickering firelight. Was keeping it so close to him draining him of his energy? There was not enough literature on the subject to be certain...<p>

And then, there was the diary. Tom retrieved it from his bag and held the two items up, staring at them. The diary needed to remain at Hogwarts, obviously...but perhaps he ought to find a new home for the ring. He decided then and there that he'd return the ring to where he had acquired it over the holidays; Dippet would allow him to Hogsmeade, of course, and then he'd simply Apparate to Little Hangleton...

Tom stood wearily and took the two pieces of his soul back to his suite with him. He shrugged off his clothing and cast it aside, too tired to hang it for once. Yes, these Horcruxes were taking their toll on him...hopefully putting some distance between himself and the ring would restore some of his energy. He dropped into his bed heavily. As he drifted off to sleep, his thoughts morphed into dreams, and though his dreams were usually of darker things, for once, they were entirely consumed by unfortunate mortal desires. Even his dream-self was a bit annoyed that they were occurring at all. They were the embarrassing, mundane dreams of average teenaged boys— which he, Lord Voldemort, was not in the least. But in his dreams he was powerless to turn away from the effigy of a certain Gryffindor firecracker, powerless to stop himself from imagining all of the ways he could possibly possess her...


	27. 27: The Shot Heard Around the World

Bad Romance

Author's Note: WOW. I am so appreciative of all of the wonderful responses I've been getting. You all rock—every single reviewer I have is intelligent and awesome.

One of you, Maggie, left an unsigned review asking why Hermione doesn't just admit of her physical attraction to Tom to ruffle his feathers, and use the fact that she does not _love_ him to bother him. Good question, but in my view of Tom, not being loved is not a loss he can fully (or, even at all) comprehend. I plan to delve further into Tom's psyche as the story progresses, so hopefully I will make that more obvious as the chapters go on.

I still can't believe it's twenty seven chapters in and I'm not even done their time at Hogwarts yet. Seriously guys: I meant to only spend a few chapters on their school days. The real plot/meat of this story comes after Hogwarts…. (hides face) THIS STORY IS GOING TO BE SO LONG! How did this happen? (cries)

Chapter Twenty Seven: The Shot Heard Around the World

When Lord Voldemort woke that morning, he was in a very bad mood. As he stood in front of his mirror, shaving, he stared at his reflection which was fast becoming unrecognizable. There were bags under his eyes, and though he had always been remarkably pale, today he was as white as snow. From tossing and turning in his sleep, his wavy hair had acquired a few cowlicks that thus far were not even tamed by magic. He was tired and frustrated, and even though he had been awake for an hour now, bits and pieces of his dreams kept returning to him when he least expected it. He tried to protect himself against these fragments, but there was the great paradox: telling oneself to not think of a thing was the surest way to guarantee that one thought of the thing. And as he was very adamantly guarding his mind against thoughts of Hermione Macmillan, that was consequently all he could think of.

His dreams had been filthy in nature, and yet, he remained unsatisfied. Perhaps possessing the Gryffindor girl in real life would have done the trick and cured him of this obsession…and yet, no. Tom tied his usual Slytherin tie without looking and instead stared out the window. He could easily use the Imperius Curse on her, but then again, couldn't anyone? He could use any number of spells to sedate her, to hold her down, to paralyze her…but again, anyone could do that. If it really were an issue of bodily urges, there were plenty of willing girls. No, that was not what he wanted.

But what _did_ he want? Why was it that Hermione haunted him so? He could force her but that would not equate to her true submission, and it was her full submission, her admission of her desire for him, that he found so tantalizing. She had so forcefully refused him from the start—why? What was she afraid of?

In truth, he thought with a smirk, she had every reason to be afraid. But she could not possibly know of _that._ He was sure of it: had Hermione known of his and his knights' goals, she would have told on them or tried to stop them straightaway.

Then why did she fear him so?

He relished the idea of her submitting willfully to him. It would not be bad, to have her on his side. She was brilliant, and her fiery temper always a point of amusement. She was not classically beautiful, yet her brown eyes that might normally have been wide and doe-like were so very _haunted_. Her mouth, always ready to twist into some disparaging remark towards him, was pretty. He knew with a bit of help that she'd be an excellent dueler. He had seen it in her the few times they had dueled. In comparison to everyone else at Hogwarts, she _was_ incredible. In comparison to him…well, she merely needed a bit of extra work.

To have her by his side…to have her keen mind helping him with Horcruxes… He preferred to work alone, of course, but to have her as one of his Knights…no, as _the _Knight? But even then, he would have had to deal with the issue of Alphard Black's obvious interest in her. And, unfortunately, Black was highly valuable to him. It was food for thought, certainly. The idea of Hermione Macmillan as one of _his_ was seductive on a number of levels.

At the very least, it was seductive enough to take his breath away.

* * *

><p>A new wave of heartache came for Hermione in Herbology the next day when she realized that Alphard was standing with Hyacinth, Abraxas, and a few other Slytherins in the class, leaving Hermione to stand on her own. Tom came in late, murmured something about having been tied up by his Head Boy duties to Professor Root, and took his place, though Hermione did not miss the look on his face when he found Alphard standing where he usually stood. Tom looked over to her and she pointedly looked away.<p>

Tears sprung to her eyes but she blinked them back furiously. She felt like it was painfully, glaringly obvious that she was on her own. She carefully avoided all gazes, her cheeks burning with humiliation. As Slughorn had (as expected) spread the tale of Hermione and Tom's encounter in the library, he had effectively cemented her from the rest of the school. She wished desperately that Geoffrey or Rupert had been in this class, and she began to wonder how in Merlin's name she would last through the rest of the year like this.

_Maybe I should just leave Hogwarts…_ The idea of leaving Hogwarts had occurred to her a few times in her own time, when she had been on bad terms with Harry and Ron, or when Ron had been dating Lavender. But every time the thought had reared its ugly head, she had made up with the boys, or something else would always renew her resolve. Here, however, she simply felt lost. If she left Hogwarts, she'd be even more adrift in time, lost for fifty years…and then what? Imagining wandering around, very alone, for fifty years gave Hermione an unsettling notion of pure despair. Her grief for months had been held at bay for the most part, but she knew that once she left the distractions of Hogwarts and all that came with it, she would have the difficult job of fending off that sadness and grief that lurked so near the surface.

As Professor Root began to delve into the lecture, Hermione noticed that someone had moved to stand beside her. A tall girl with a somewhat ungraceful frame and wavy brown hair cut into a bob was standing in Alphard's usual spot. When Hermione looked at her, she smiled. It wasn't a sneer, which Hermione had been on the receiving end often so far this week, but a genuine, kind smile. The sight of it made Hermione want to burst into fresh tears all over again.

"I'm Amelia. Amelia Bones," she whispered. "You're going with Geoffrey to the Yule Ball, right? I'm going with Rupert!"

"Y-yes," Hermione stammered a bit. Amelia's smiled broadened.

"Rupert says you're very nice. He told me all about what happened with—er, well, you know." She sighed and shrugged. "Boys are stupid anyway."

"They are stupid!" Hermione said a little more heatedly than intended. Alphard's gaze met hers, but neither looked away. There was a certain defiance in their gazes. She got the feeling Alphard was waiting for her to do or say something about him and Hyacinth. _Don't hold your breath,_ she thought nastily, narrowing her eyes slightly at the Slytherin Seeker. His mouth was pressed into a thin, straight line, and his eyes seemed to spark with anger. _I'll die before I let you know I'm hurt_. Hyacinth saw the exchange and tugged on Alphard's sleeve, and with one last indeterminable expression from Alphard, he looked away.

"Blimey, he is cute though. I don't think I'd be able to turn him down!" Amelia whispered when she saw where Hermione was looking. She looked back at her. "We should go to Hogsmeade sometime as a double date. I know you and Geoffrey aren't together," she said hastily, "but you're the only girl he's ever been remotely nice to, and Rupert adores you, and I would like to get to know you!"

"Hufflepuffs are the nicest of the Houses," Hermione said with a grin. "I'm glad you're smart enough to see how sweet of a guy Rupert is," she added. Amelia gave a blase wave of her hand.

"Honestly, I don't know what's gotten into the girls of this school. They're absolutely batty over Riddle and Black." She dropped her voice to such a low volume that Hermione had to lean in closer to hear her. "Between you and me…well, they _are_ both quite fetching…but that's no reason to be mean to a fellow girl. And there are so many other nice boys at Hogwarts, don't you think? But it's always been this way; there's something about those two, like they're magnets for women!"

"They're both prats," said Hermione bitterly as she absently took notes, though Amelia's kindness was acting as a balm over the many wounds that she had been carrying from having so much trouble with bullying. In the same way that Harry and Ron's earnest friendship had given her enough confidence to brave the worst of the storms of adolescence, Amelia was giving her enough courage to feel she could handle any problems coming from Alphard and Tom—and their fanbase—as long as at least _one_ girl was nice to her.

As they parted, the girls agreed to catch up at dinner to discuss double-date options. Hermione walked to lunch, grinning to herself at the idea of how horrified Geoffrey was likely to be at being Hermione's beau on a date as well as to the Yule Ball. As expected, the boys were at the Gryffindor table, apparently caught up in some sort of heated debate. …Or rather, Geoffrey was talking so loud he was just short of yelling, and Rupert seemed to be doing his best at calming his friend down. Hermione slid in next to Rupert. Immediately, Geoffrey shot her a shrewd look.

"What're you so pleased about?" he demanded. Hermione grinned wider at him.

"No need to bite my head off, Geoffrey," she chided lightly, though the grin never faded from her face.

"Don't mind him, 'Mione. He's just sore about how popular you are," Rupert interrupted cheekily. Geoffrey scowled at him then rounded on Hermione.

"I'm considering rescinding your invitation to the Yule Ball. If Riddle docks points _one more time…_"

Hermione blinked in shock at him as Rupert chuckled. "Weasely, this is _not_ a laughing matter. Gryffindor is in last place…and it's _my fault._" Geoffrey moaned before hiding his face in his arms on the table. With a glance back to the Slytherin table, Hermione saw Tom sitting there. Evidently he had just told some hilarious joke, as all of the Slytherins were laughing around him hysterically. When he saw her looking, he gave her an infuriating little wink. Hermione's cheeks turned tomato red and she looked back at Geoffrey.

"What exactly did he dock points for?" she asked casually. Geoffrey looked up from his arms and his scowl deepened as he apparently recalled the incident.

"Don't worry about it," he said in a leaden voice, his expression darkening. Rupert cut in for him.

"Geoff, it's better if she knows," he contended. With a pitying look at Hermione, he began: "last night, Augusta caught Hyacinth Parkinson and her friends…well, they were plotting, I guess, against you. And Augusta had the brilliant idea of telling Dippet about it…" at this, Hermione felt strangely happy. Augusta had done something kind for her. "…and Dippet ended up giving the girls detention. They didn't like that, so…" he paused, drawing in a deep breath, "this morning, they were going to sneak into your dorm somehow and…do something. I don't know what. And Geoff caught them, so he tried to Hex them…and Riddle caught them all."

"He didn't take half as many points from Slytherin as he did from Gryffindor!" Geoffrey exploded. "And, to top it all off, he gave _me_ detention and let the girls go scot-free! And guess when that detention happens to occur?"

Hermione, recalling Harry's temper, let out a sigh. "The Quidditch game this Saturday?" she asked miserably. The way Geoffrey merely buried his face in his arms again was enough of an affirmative for Hermione.

"It's okay, Potter, I'm sure the stand-in Seeker will win the game for you," a drawling voice interrupted them from their misery. Tom, Alphard, and Abraxas were standing behind them, evidently on their way out of the Great Hall. Again, Alphard gave her that same look he had given her in Herbology, and she gave him a rather nasty scowl in response. Geoffrey looked up and turned purple.

"You bloody—" he began, but Rupert shot him a warning look. Tom gave a look of feigned pity and cocked his head to the side.

"Tut tut, Potter. If I dock any more points, you'll lose the cup for GryffIndor again," he said with a shake of his head. Hermione glowered up at him.

"Why are you doing this?" she hissed. Tom remained unaffected.

"He was Hexing a group of innocent girls, Hermione. That's just unchivalrous, and rather un-Gryffindor-like. With that sort of behavior, how can I possibly allow Gryffindor to win the House cup this year?"

"He was trying to protect me from the wrath of your horrible fangirls," Hermione retorted, standing up from her seat quickly. Tom quirked an eyebrow.

"I see no evidence for that," he said softly. For a moment, the rest of the Great Hall faded away. Hermione forgot about them entirely. Remembering her desire to fluster Tom, and thinking of how miserable he had so gleefully made her life—both now and in the future—Hermione acted without thinking. His beautiful lips broadened into that half-smirk that he always seemed to save for her, and Hermione raised a shaking hand. Abraxas made some sort of terrible comment to Rupert, and that was what cemented the decision she had unconsciously made.

Hermione slapped Tom Riddle across the face, the sound ringing out like a gunshot in the now silent Great Hall.


	28. 28: The Bad Touch

Bad Romance

Author's Note: So: HOLY SHIT you guys are AWESOME. Your lovely reviews made my day yesterday and every time I saw I had gotten a new email on my phone, I was beaming :) Probably everyone on campus thought I was insane for grinning so much…but, you know, whatever.

Also: I've gotten complaints about chapter length. To be honest, I tend to end chapters wherever I feel like they ought to end. Sometimes that's at 2200 words, sometimes (but not often) it's closer to 5000. So until I get even MORE long-winded (god help us all) the chapters will continue to be of variable length. Sorry!

PLEASE REVIEW!

Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Bad Touch

Reality came crashing down around Hermione as she withdrew her hand slowly, the silence buzzing deafeningly around her. Tom's normally lily-pale cheek had an angry red mark on it, and he brought his fingertips up to it, staring at Hermione in utter shock. There were a few gasps. And then, the exact opposite of what she would have expected occurred: Tom's eyes glittered and the corners of his lips turned up in a smile of pure and utter delight.

"Oh no…" Rupert moaned somewhere behind Hermione. She swallowed over a lump that was fast forming in her throat. This whole thing was highly reminiscent of when she had slapped Malfoy in third year, only Tom seemed mostly amused.

"Why, Hermione…you never cease to give me endless entertainment," Tom murmured, looking down at her in a way that she could not pin a word to. Almost…cherishingly, only less loving. Hermione's expression hardened. Behind Tom, she saw Abraxas and Alphard looking absolutely terrified. _Good. Because I'm in such a state you might be next, Alphard,_ she thought acidly, shooting the Slytherin Seeker a glare over Tom's shoulder. Alphard's eyes widened slightly. Hermione turned back to Tom.

"Take back Geoffrey's detention at _once. _It's not fair that you're extending our little war to my friends," she said hotly, her fists clenching. Tom scoffed.

"What an ego, to think that any of this concerns you at all!"

"You bloody well know it does," Geoffrey interrupted. His face was still rather purple, a vein throbbing in his temple outstandingly. Tom gave Geoffrey a smirk and extended it to Hermione. Yet again, he made an entirely unexpected move.

"Alright then. If you can guess my favorite book, Potter doesn't have detention," he said silkily, his mouth wicked and his eyes sparking. Something in Hermione snapped. She snatched her bag, turned to Geoffrey, and in a move also reminiscent of when she had slapped Malfoy, spoke to Geoffrey.

"Geoffrey," she began in a high, trembling voice. Geoffrey even looked a bit scared of her, which was saying something. She rarely saw the Gryffindor boy look unnerved. "If you don't bloody well _destroy_ Slytherin this Saturday, you will have much worse than _that—_" at this, she jabbed a finger back at the red handwork on Tom's cheek, "—to look forward to from me!"

Without another word to any of them, she stormed out of the Great Hall, though as she was leaving, she could have sworn she heard Rupert mumble something about her being scarier than his own mum.

She had some researching to do if she was going to get Geoffrey freed of detention by Saturday.

* * *

><p>"Anything to do with Hades?" she demanded as she ducked a Body Bind spell from Tom. Tom sighed all too loudly. He didn't quite dodge a Hex from her, and had to put out a small fire at the hem of his robes.<p>

"_No_. I told you: it isn't Greek mythology," he said with great exasperation. Hermione glowered at him, and he in return gave her a rather cheeky grin.

Perhaps it was her anger and frustration, but today, Hermione's dueling was spot-on. Professor Merrythought could not stop singing Hermione's praises, and most of the class had stopped their own duels to watch Tom's and Hermione's in awe and amusement. Though Tom was not putting much effort into the duel, Hermione had still managed to attack him with her trademark vicious yellow birds (she hadn't told him yet, but there was a yellow feather still stuck in his hair that filled her with glee each time she saw it) and she had singed his robes and set a freezing charm on him as well. Tom had made her hair stand on-end (which was especially unfortunate considering the notable amount of bushy curls she possessed), hit her with a Tickling Charm, and _nearly_ hit her with a Furnunculus Hex (the one that caused boils. Good thing she had dodged that one).

"So it's really old, it's a classic, and you say that it has a lot in common with Greek mythology?" Hermione and Tom cast spells at the same time; the two combined and pulverized a lamp nearby. They hardly noticed as Merrythought shrieked in surprise.

"For the _last time, yes._" Tom rolled his eyes at her quite vigorously. Hermione pulled a face, and for good measure, hit him with a rather charming Hex that caused little daises to grow along the hem of his robes.

After Defense Against the Dark Arts, Hermione returned to the library, though as her enemies had multiplied since she had slapped Tom, she did not feel safe there. Instead, she checked out a few heavy tomes and toddled back to her dormitory mostly hidden behind the wobbling stack of them. So thoroughly was she investigating that Hermione missed dinner, and by the time she had determined the answer, the snores of her classmates filled the room. Hermione, wide-eyed and wild-haired, slapped the book she had been holding shut and looked up.

"_Got it._" she whispered to herself in delight. She didn't even bother retrieving the Invisibility Cloak; she merely checked the Marauder's Map, found Tom on patrols, and began sprinting down the stairs. Geoffrey and Rupert were in the common room, doing work.

"Where in Merlin's name are you running off to?" Geoffrey demanded. Hermione paused at the portrait hole to grin at the boys.

"Hope you're prepared for that Quidditch match this Saturday, Geoffrey," she said with a grin, and then dashed out of Gryffindor tower.

Hermione practically skipped down the corridors; she only narrowly escaped the caretaker Grogan in her enthusiasm and once almost crossed paths with Hyacinth Parkinson. _I figured it out. I figured it out! _she chanted to herself, squealing out loud a few times. She could not _wait_ to see the look of surprise on Tom's face when she correctly guessed his favorite book. _That bastard probably thought I would never figure it out._ Hermione smirked with great satisfaction. _Let it be known that Hermione Granger does _not_ rest until she finds the answer to a problem! _

…Or to a riddle? _Ha_.

After a while, she finally caught up with Tom in the dungeons, though he did not see her first, surprisingly. She rounded the corner, preparing to sneak up on him, and found him gazing contemplatively out one of the stained-glass windows, his fingertips pressed against the colorful patches of glass. The moonlight that filtered in left jewel-toned patches of light on his face. He looked lost in thought. For a moment, Hermione simply stared at him. With the long, sweeping robes that he wore like a second skin, and the way he was bathed in the colors from the window, he could have been an image in a stained glass window himself.

"Good evening," she said into the silence. If Tom were startled, he didn't show it. He turned to her, his lips curving into a smirk.

"Out of bed again? Hermione, between you and Geoffrey you might just put Gryffindor into negative points," he said softly as they approached each other. Hermione smirked back at him, brandishing her wand.

"I figured it out," she said in a low voice, barely able to control her glee.

They came to a halt inches from each other. Hermione was too excited, too eager to reveal what she now knew, that she was for once unflustered by Tom's beauty.

"Figured what out?"

"Your favorite book. I know what it is," she said with unconfined happiness. Tom arched his brows at her, still smirking. He nodded as a gesture for her to continue. "As we already determined," she began, circling him, "You're too proud of your intellect to ever like a common book. It would have to be something special, something that not many people had the brains to read. And, with your superstitiousness and reverence for mystique, it would have to be a fable, a tale with a lesson at the end to be learned."

"Interesting, but this is nothing new," Tom said, turning to follow her as she circled him.

"Let me finish. So it would have to be something very old, something very complex, and something spiritual, as though you'd like to hide it, you are a highly spiritual person." she paused and stopped in front of him again, studying his amused expression. "You said that a lot of literature borrows from it. You also said it was one of the first books. You value power, as you are leader of your friends and Head Boy. So the main character would have to be very, very powerful. All this leads to one very obvious choice, and I'm annoyed at myself for not seeing it before," Hermione confessed.

"Hermione, do just tell me. The suspense is killing me," Tom said with a grin. Hermione returned his grin again.

"It's obvious: your favorite book is the Epic of Gilgamesh." She held her breath, waiting for Tom's reaction. For the third time that day, he surprised her completely. Again that half-smirk that he seemed to reserve solely for her graced his lips.

"Well done," he murmured as he looked down at her. "You're right: it is the closest thing I have to a favorite book."

"But I'll bet that you dislike the ending," Hermione interrupted a bit breathlessly from holding her breath before. Tom's half-smirk broadened.

"You're getting quite good at this, Hermione. Very well: I suppose I'll have to let Potter off the hook for detention, then," he said grudgingly. He turned slightly. "Now, back to bed with you, before I give _you_ detention."

Hermione stared at him as he began walking away, flabbergasted.

"Th-that's _it?_" she sputtered. Tom paused and looked over his shoulder at her, brows raised.

"I believe it is."

"But," she began, grasping at loose ends, "you… you always have _something_ to argue about," she finished a bit lamely. Tom's eyes were twinkling with evident great amusement.

"You guessed my favorite book, and you even guessed that I dislike the ending. Nothing to argue about." He shrugged and began walking away again. Unsure as to why this was irritating her so much, Hermione ran after him. When she caught up to him, she grasped his arm and yanked him back to look at her. "Hermione!" Tom said in surprise. They faced each other again. "I'm beginning to think you simply enjoy my company," he teased, lowering his voice a bit dangerously. Hermione glowered.

"You know, I can't help but feel suspicious!" she snapped. "You _never_ make things easy for me!" She had no idea why she was arguing with Tom. Maybe it was because she knew him just well enough to know that when he seemed to be doing someone a favor, it turned out to be very much the opposite. That, and a tiny part of her had perhaps expected a little more recognition for her hard work.

"First time for everything," he said simply, though he did not turn away right away. Hermione continued to glower at him.

"Why do you keep docking points from my friends for no reason?" she demanded. "It's _almost_ like you're…jealous, or something." She waited tensely for him to react to her words, to protest, to give some snide comment. He merely cocked his head to the side.

"You want me to be jealous, I think," he criticized, his dark eyes roving over her face, lingering on her lips. "I notice you haven't chastised Black for his behavior, which points to jealousy much more than _mine_ does." Hermione gave an impatient wave of her hand.

"You asked me to the Ball several times," she hissed crossly. "And when you struck up that little deal this morning, I was very surprised that you didn't use it to your advantage and demand I go with you, just to annoy Alphard."

"You're not surprised I didn't do that," Tom shot back, stepping closer slightly, "You're just _disappointed_ that I didn't. Because the truth is that you are simply dying to go with me, and for some absurd reason you've conjured, you seem to have decided you cannot possibly openly acknowledge your attraction to me."

Hermione's temper roared to life again. She contemplated slapping him again briefly, but instead reached out and yanked on his tie, jerking him forward.

"I'm _not_ attracted to you. You just can't come to terms with the fact that a girl isn't attracted to you," she parried angrily, tightening her grip on his tie. Maddeningly, Tom continued to seem highly amused by her behavior. He gave an infuriating little chuckle.

"Okay, whatever you say, Hermione. Just remember that _you're_ the one who suggested I should have forced you to go to the Ball with me. _You're_ the one who sought me out here, at night, when we are very much alone. You could have simply told me you had figured it out tomorrow at breakfast. _You're_ the one that is tugging on my tie in such a…_suggestive_ manner. I have done nothing."

Disgusted and horrified, Hermione relinquished her hold on the silk immediately and backed away. Unfortunately, Tom began walking toward her, backing her into the stone wall. It was cold against her back, and she shivered. Tom braced one hand next to her head and studied her.

"Now _you're_ the one that's cornered me," she pointed out in a tremulous voice that betrayed the fear and excitement that were building up humiliatingly inside her. Tom pressed his forehead against hers, and consequently took her breath away. She struggled to hide any reaction to this motion at all, but she had the bad feeling that her heart was pounding loud enough to wake the entire castle. She felt his cool fingers of his free hand touch her chin, tilting her face closer to his.

"You're the one who let me," he said softly. "I don't understand why you so adamantly deny yourself what you so obviously want." Hermione feared their lips might brush again.

As their heads moved closer, Hermione, with a sweaty but tight grip on her wand, pointed her wand at his throat, halting him in his tracks.

"I'm not attracted to you, I don't want you, and I _never_ will," she whispered, her voice quavering. Tom's eyes sparked with rage.

"_Why_ do you continue to lie?" his voice had gone colder. "Hermione, you're bloody well the most infuriating witch I have ever had the displeasure to meet."

"I'm not lying," she ground out. Tom's eyes narrowed.

"Oh really? Because I can prove that you _are_."

Hermione swallowed.

"You can't. And it's a shame you can't learn from your hero a bit more, because in the end, Gilgamesh learned to be at peace with himself and not force the people around him to bend to his will."

"I thought you understood that I disliked the ending."

"Forcing someone to do something doesn't mean they want to do it," Hermione retorted hotly. She pressed her wand harder against his Adam's apple. "You can force yourself on me like you did in Honeydukes and later that day, but that doesn't mean you're proving anything."

"I have forced _nothing_ on you. You tell yourself that, but in reality, you allowed—no, you _welcomed_—my kiss. You can tell yourself that you loved your ex-boyfriend. You can tell yourself that you prefer Alphard to me. But the only one you're kidding is yourself, Hermione. The truth is written all over your face, it's written all over your actions, and if there really weren't a connection of some sort between us, do you really think that those girls would be giving you such trouble? They see what you refuse to see."

He pulled away, pushing her wand away from his throat. He gave her a strange little smile.

"But I won't force you. I don't _need_ to. Eventually you'll have to acknowledge the truth anyway."

Hermione sank against the wall and watched him walk away in silence.


	29. 29: Disappearing Boy

Bad Romance

Author's Note: Seriously, you guys ought to give yourselves major pats on your backs. Every chapter I am totally blown away by your intelligent reviews, helpful concrit, and general awesomeness. Every single review makes my day even more :) The past few weeks have been awful but I haven't really noticed, because every time something happens, I then get another sweet pm or review and then i'm grinning like a creeper again :P

A lot of you have been asking about chapter count. I don't have even the vaguest idea of how long this will be, which points to the fact that it will probably be longer than 35 chapters. In fact, it will probably be longer than 50 chapters…at the rate I'm going. This is getting kind of sad.

Also more hotness in this chapter….once again, imho :P And at YourBiggestFan's request, Hermione even gets a little dolled up. Just a little. Enjoy!

PLEASE REVIEW!

Chapter Twenty Nine: Disappearing Boy

After a harrowing week, Hermione was not really in prime condition to meet anyone important. Sadly, she was set to meet Geoffrey's family in Hogsmeade after the Quidditch match, and she couldn't decline at this point, especially since by taking her to the Yule Ball, he was doing her an enormous favor. Luckily, Geoffrey had stopped grumbling about being her date, and had instead taken every opportunity to goad Hermione into slapping someone—all the better if they were a Slytherin— again. She seemed to have earned a new level of respect from both Geoffrey and Rupert, and also now, whenever she passed by any of Tom's friends, she was rewarded with the sight of them cowering slightly in her presence. Even Alphard seemed a little afraid of her. The distance between them made her anger at him begin to ebb away, and as he seemed to be done with flaunting his courtship of Hyacinth in her presence, Hermione began to wonder if maybe they ought to just try a little harder to make up.

Saturday dawned bright and bitingly crisp. Unsure of what to wear to meet Geoffrey's family, Hermione smoothed out her hair with hair potion and tried to assemble the most era-appropriate outfit out of the clothing she owned. She left Gryffindor Tower that morning with Rupert wearing dark grey tights, her black ballet flats that she always wore to school, her pleated skirt from her uniform, and a maroon sweater of Ron's. She had stolen it from him and thus far avoided wearing it, due to the grief it caused her because it had smelled like him. The scent of Ron had faded from the jumper now and she felt safe wearing it. She topped it off with her favorite peacoat and a bright beret and matching scarf, and even was compelled to add a bit of subtle makeup. When Rupert saw her, his eyes widened.

"Hermione, you look so…" he paused, studying her as they walked, "…girly," he finally said. Hermione shot him a short-lived glower. She couldn't stay in a bad mood for too long; she _did_ feel a little more confident, and she was excited to sit with Rupert and Amelia and cheer on Geoffrey.

"I don't think Geoffrey would appreciate it if I showed up to meet his family looking like a troll," said Hermione dryly. She slipped on a pair of mittens and wrapped her scarf tighter as they stepped out into the late autumn air. Amelia was already walking to the pitch ahead of them, but waited when Rupert caught her attention. She was wearing a Gryffindor scarf, and when they caught up to her, Hermione was pleased to see her greet Rupert with a peck on the cheek. While Rupert seemed to float alongside them, Amelia fell into step with Hermione.

"You look so cute!" she said cheerily. She drew closer and lowered her voice. "Dressing up for Black?" she teased. Hermione scowled.

"Of course not. I'm meeting Geoffrey's family today, and he's always going on about how unattractive I am."

Amelia shook her head and laughed.

"How polite of him."

"That's Geoff for you," Rupert said good-naturedly. He seemed to have recovered from Amelia's kiss, for Hermione saw him slip his hand into the Hufflepuff Seeker's hand. She smiled but somehow, felt a stab of melancholy that was hard to quite shake off. _I never even had time to walk hand-in-hand with Ron,_ she thought glumly. By this time they had reached the stands and Hermione's depressing ponderings were overtaken by the cheers of the fans. Hermione sat on Amelia's other side, a bit awkward as Amelia and Rupert snuggled together on the bench.

The commentator announced the arrival of the Slytherin team. Alphard strode out onto the pitch. As his team took their places around him, Hermione's breath caught as he looked up directly at her. She felt Amelia jab her side.

"Look! He's looking for you," she hissed excitedly. Hermione made a show of rolling her eyes, but she couldn't help but notice how he _did_ seem to have been searching the Gryffindor side of the stands. Even from afar, their eyes met, and Alphard looked away first. Hermione's depressing thoughts returned unexpectedly. _If you were just willing to go further with Alphard, maybe you could be walking about the grounds, holding hands with him. _It seemed a long time ago that Alphard had stolen away from his team after a Quidditch match to take her underneath the stands. Hermione's jaw clenched. _But I know who I am…and I'm not the type of girl to just give in like that. _That being said, it wasn't like they couldn't be friends, at the very least… Again, Rupert's analysis of Alphard returned to her in bits and pieces.

The match began. It was rather disappointing to see how mismatched Alphard and Geoffrey were as Seekers; Alphard was nothing special, but Hermione regretted how she always noticed that Geoffrey simply wasn't cut out to be a Seeker. It felt disloyal to always be noting that Geoffrey simply wasn't very good at Quidditch, in the same way that she had always felt disloyal when she had noted Ron's lack of Quidditch skill.

"POTTER! POTTER! POTTER!" Rupert and Amelia whooped. On the other side, the Slytherins were screaming Alphard's name. Alphard circled above the pitch just as he seemed to circle round Hermione's thoughts. _Maybe Rupert was right, and he doesn't really care about going further. Perhaps he just wanted to give a more acceptable reason for his anger. _All in all, Hermione was filled with the uncomfortable feelings of being disloyal, both for thinking of Geoffrey as bad at Quidditch and for considering relenting and forgiving Alphard.

The Gryffindor team was perhaps, as a whole, a better formed team than the Slytherin team, but Alphard outmatched Geoffrey by far, and compensated for his team's lack of coordination. The Gryffindors scored. Hermione could not take her eyes off of Alphard as she remained lost in thought.

"You're looking fetching today. Hoping to win back Black?"

Hermione didn't bother turning to the person who had sat next to her, and instead help up a mittened hand, threatening to slap again. She heard Tom laugh his familiar baritone laugh. Did it have to be such a hypnotic sound? He was sitting much too close; their legs were pressed against each other and their arms brushed every time either of them moved—which was often, because Tom was continuously turning to attend to someone greeting him. There was plenty of room on the benches and yet they were sitting close enough that they could have been mistaken for a couple. Hermione's breathing became shallow. She could just barely detect his scent, this close, and it made her want to draw in closer. Instead she clenched her fists and rested them on her thighs.

"I'm meeting Geoffrey's family," she said shortly. She spared Tom a glance. Girls around them were trying to catch his attention and preening vigorously, but Tom's dark eyes were on the match above. Once in a while, he would greet them if they called out his name. Otherwise, his fangirls went ignored. It was gratifying to see how they clamored for his attention and how pointless it was. He looked at her and their eyes met. Hermione shivered despite the heat that was crawling up her spine at their close contact. Tom's eyes roved over her thoughtfully; his gaze lingered on her legs.

"You ought to dress up more often; you just might help Gryffindor win this match," he said with a smirk. He pointed at the Quidditch players. Alphard was looking over his shoulder at her and missed Geoffrey take a sudden dive.

"He's seen the Snitch!" Hermione cried excitedly. For an instant she forgot about how close she was to Tom, and jumped slightly in her seat to better watch Geoffrey. The consequent contact Tom sighed.

"And Black was too busy ogling you to pay attention," he said mournfully. Alphard heard the boos of the Slytherins and took a swift dive as he broke his gaze from Hermione. He sped up and followed Geoffrey's nose dive. He caught up and the boys knocked into each other. The Snitch glinted in the sun and shot up into the air; the force with which Alphard and Geoffrey had hit each other caused them to plummet off their brooms. The crowd gasped, Hermione stood up out of the bench and clapped her hands over her mouth as the two Seekers hit the ground with a crack that was audible even from where she and Tom stood.

The referee called a time-out; Alphard and Geoffrey were helped up off the ground, glowering at each other. They remounted their brooms and the match resumed.

"I ought to go catch up with Augusta." he paused and leaned in closer, so that his lips were nearly brushing against the shell of her ear. Hermione stared resolutely forward, not taking in her surroundings or the goings-on of the match at all. Tom dropped his voice lower, so that only she could barely hear him. "Maybe if you show some leg next time, you'll really win the match for Potter." His tone was wicked; his fingers seemed to 'accidentally' brush her upper thigh at the hem of her skirt. Even through the thick grey wool of her stockings, Hermione felt like he had burned her. "Anyway, see you around; good luck meeting Potter's parents!" Tom finished brightly as he stood. Hermione recovered in time to watch him greet everyone as he passed by. Faintly she recalled that it was the duty of the Head Boy and Head Girl to patrol during Quidditch matches for any behavior that could be described as 'poor sportsmanship.'

"I think you're the envy of the entire female population," Amelia said with a laugh after Tom was out of earshot. Rupert looked uncharacteristically sulky for a moment, but when Amelia snuggled against his chest, he evidently promptly forgot to sulk. Hermione shook her head, chuckling to herself, and then tried desperately to pay attention to the match. But she could not quite shake the tingling warmth that had spread through her body from Tom's touch. She was grateful that no one had seen that. But it seemed that no one had missed how close they had been sitting. Now that he was gone, she greatly noticed the cold air.

Despite his distractions, Alphard caught the Snitch and won the game. Hermione went with Rupert and Amelia to console Geoffrey. He was silent and refused to speak to any of them, though just before he left to shower he informed Hermione that she was to meet him outside of the Three Broomsticks at one o'clock. With hours to go before then, Hermione decided to give Rupert and Amelia some privacy. She excused herself, saying she wanted to buy a present for Geoffrey's mother. Her parents had taught her that this was the thing to do, so it was not entirely a lie. Nevertheless, Rupert nodded discretely at her before leading Amelia to one of the more romantic cafes in Hogsmeade, and Hermione gave him a private grin before sending them off.

For a while, Hermione wandered about the shops. What to give to Geoffrey's mum? She finally decided on a box of Honeydukes chocolates, though her cheeks burned as she recalled the taste of it. Hermione window shopped for a bit, looking absently for Christmas presents for Geoffrey and Rupert, though not coming to any conclusions. Finally it was time to meet Geoffrey. She made her way back towards the main section of Hogsmeade, and ducked into a sidestreet that was barely bigger than an alley when she saw Tom, Alphard, and their usual crowd walking about. She waited for them to pass, but when she heard their voices, she began walking down the alley. She'd have to take a roundabout way to meet Geoffrey. Fearing being late, she quickened her pace, but froze when she heard footsteps.

Alphard was tentatively approaching her; they were shadowed by the buildings on either side of them.

"A-alphard," Hermione stammered, feeling her face grow hot. Alphard averted his eyes as he came to a stop a few feet away from her.

"Hermione," he said a bit breathlessly. Hermione chewed on her lip as an awkward silence seemed to stretch on forever between them.

"Good job at the match," she said finally as an excuse to break the silence. Alphard gave her an unsteady half-smile. It was so strange to see him look so meek, especially after the defiance with which he had been ignoring her for so long. He took a step closer to her. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Hermione registered that she was going to be late. "I-I have to go," she announced, turning away. Alphard stepped closer and gripped her shoulder.

"Wait. You're always running away," he said. "I just…" he seemed to falter. Hermione looked back at him. In spite of everything, there was a large part of her that wanted to make things work between them. Perhaps it was her desire to rid her mind of thoughts of Tom, perhaps it was her loneliness, but most likely it was that she genuinely did _like_ being around Alphard. …When he wasn't being a total prat, of course.

"I'm supposed to meet Geoffrey's family," Hermione said after a moment. She drew in a deep breath, steeling her will. "Is there something you wanted?"

The heat in his brown eyes was unmistakable.

"Yeah, there is," he finally said after swallowing. "There is something I want. But I'm worried someone else has it, and I want to know if it's mine or not."

Hermione knew what he was trying to say. She turned away abruptly in spite of the war occurring inside her.

"Maybe it's no one's." she paused. Alphard was staring probingly at her. "I'm going to be late," she muttered, and walked away.

Hermione made her way to the Three Broomsticks, feeling unsettled. _Mine. _It seemed such a strong label. It had so very many implications… some of which were more worrisome than others. _I'm worried someone else has it. _Recalling these words made the bile rise in her throat; his implication was crystal clear. And the thought of Tom 'having' her, to use Alphard's phrasing, was a thought that was just too much to handle. Hermione really thought she might simply melt then and there. It took several moments of deep breaths and thinking of simple, happy things before she felt safe in her own mind again.


	30. 30: Quicksand

Bad Romance

Author's Note: so, this chapter I decided to make things a little steamier, because, you know, it was necessary. Also this chapter is really long. Oh well. I really hope you guys it. Next chapter is finally, finally the Yule Ball. It depresses me how long it took me to get even to this point in the story. I truly am even more longwinded than I initially thought. Funny how in real life, I almost never say a word :P

PLEASE REVIEW!

Chapter Thirty: Quicksand

Geoffrey was looking cross and stomping his feet to keep warm in front of the Three Broomsticks.

"Thank Merlin at least _something_ is going right today," he grumbled when Hermione reached him. "You look presentable," he added gruffly. "Come on, Garret and mum are probably already there."

"Hello to you too, Geoffrey," Hermione said sarcastically, rolling her eyes. Geoffrey glowered and held the door open for her with an exaggerated flourish.

"Ladies first," he said crabbily. Hermione pulled a face and Geoffrey responded by shoving her inside the pub. "Great. There he is."

Despite the packed pub, Hermione could spot the Potters instantly. First, she noticed an older man that looked—and seemed to act—startlingly like Geoffrey, with a sturdy but tall frame, sensible square spectacles, dark robes, and a scowl to rival Geoffrey's. His untidy hair was receding, but had been sort of half-heartedly combed and styled. Next to him sat a beautiful witch with salt-and-pepper hair in silk amethyst robes and a matching hat. When Geoffrey waved, she turned, and Hermione could have sworn she saw gems glittering in the witch's hair. Her bright red lips formed a serene smile. There was another person—presumably Garret—but was hidden from Hermione's view by a small Christmas tree. The only thing she could see was a pair of angular, scarred hands gesticulating broadly.

"I brought them chocolates," Hermione offered hopefully, holding the box up for Geoffrey to see. He seemed somewhat mollified.

"They'll like that. They appreciate a girl with good manners." Geoffrey seemed reluctant to make his way over to the table. Hermione studied him shrewdly.

"Geoffrey. What's wrong?" she finally demanded, crossing her arms and cocking her head at him. Geoffrey let out a sigh and looked at the ground, his mouth twisting into a worried looking frown.

"D'you have any siblings?" he asked suddenly. Hermione was surprised, to say the least. But she recalled how often both Ron and Ginny had complained loudly of the pain of having so many siblings…worse for Ron was the fact that all of his older brothers were successful, and most of them—with the exception of Percy—very good-looking and popular. She had come to learn that sibling rivalry was something that colored every family interaction, and gave endless amounts of pain to younger siblings.

"Er…no. But I can imagine how hard it must be, having a successful older brother," she sympathized, placing a hand on his shoulder. "But if you must know, you're very handsome and smart, and if Garret ever teases you…it's because he probably considers you worthy competition."

Geoffrey gave her a look of pure disgust and batted her hand away, though his cheeks were turning bright red and he was carefully avoiding her eyes.

"Merlin, how could you possibly think I was worried about _that_?" he sneered, shoving his hands in the pockets of his traveling cloak. Hermione smiled indulgently at him and shook her head, following him to where his family sat.

"Geoffrey! My dear little brother!" Hermione only caught a blur of emerald green and untidy black hair; she was knocked to the side as Geoffrey was nearly steamrollered by what she assumed was Garret. She recovered just in time to see Garret release Geoffrey before rounding on her. He was notably tall, and the first, most shocking thing she noticed about him was how eerily he resembled Harry. He was clearly James' father, _not_ Geoffrey. Literally the only difference in features between him and Harry were Garret's long hair and brown eyes. He was tall and had a frame that must have been somewhat lanky in his teen years; his untidy black hair was pulled into a loose ponytail that would have done Bill Weasley proud, with fly away bits hanging round his face. An expensive-looking emerald green traveling cloak was fastened round his broad shoulders, and when he turned, Hermione was blasted with a powerful but still pleasant wave of French cologne. "Is this _her, _Geoffrey? Is this Hermione?" he was looking at her as though he had never seen a girl before. Hermione felt her cheeks redden as Geoffrey mumbled an affirmative, as his mother was currently kissing him on both cheeks and trying to flatten his hair.

"Hello, Garret," Hermione greeted awkwardly. "Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Potter," she added over Garret's shoulder, afraid of being thought of as rude.

"Geoffrey, she's _beautiful!_" Garret cried, bowing and taking Hermione's hand. He kissed it with unnecessary flourish before straightening, grabbing her shoulders, and subjecting her to an examination. "And _look! _She brought Honeydukes!"

"Garret, sit _down_," Geoffrey's father said irritably. Geoffrey's mother let out a musical laugh as Garret completely ignored his father. He circled Hermione.

"I do love a pretty girl in a beret. So charming," he said thoughtfully. "Nice legs, a good figure—"

"GARRET!" Geoffrey suddenly exploded, and reached up, grabbing Garret by the scruff of his robes and forcing him to sit on the bench next to him. Garret laughed.

"Ah yes, I realize you did find her first, little brother," he said with a sigh. He patted the space in the booth next to him. "Sit next to _me,_ fair Hermione."

Hermione awkwardly slid in next to Garret, across from Mr. and Mrs. Potter. Mrs. Potter had her hands clasped together by her cheek and was gazing nearly _lovingly_ at Hermione.

"Oh Geoffrey, she _is_ beautiful," she agreed in a floating, sweet voice. "And ever so polite! And Geoffrey tells us you've the top grades in your year, sweetheart?"

Hermione's cheeks flushed an even darker red just as Garret bellowed, "Just like _me!" _and slung an arm around Hermione's shoulders. Geoffrey was radiating waves of sulkiness.

"Er, not the _top_ grades," she conceded, though her grades had always been a point of pleasure for her. Indeed, she did have the top scores thus far—but was tied for the top spot in the class with a certain future Dark Lord. "One of the boys in our year has exactly the same scores as me," she explained. "But enough about that. Here, I brought these. I hope you like chocolates," she added in a rush, holding out the box of chocolates. Mr. Potter seemed suddenly very interested in the conversation, and just as Mrs. Potter was holding out her hand to accept, Mr. Potter swept in and nicked the box from Hermione.

"Chocolates, you say? Lovely, my favorite," he said greedily, making to open the box. Mrs. Potter narrowed her beautiful purple eyes at him.

"_James,_" she hissed disapprovingly. "You'll spoil your dinner!"

"But chocolates!" he said rather thickly, as his mouth was already filled with some of the Honeydukes sweets. Geoffrey massaged his temples in pure exasperation, and Garret reached out, also eyeing the chocolates. Mrs. Potter sighed.

"Never mind them, dear. The Potter men are known for their sweet tooth," she explained kindly, patting Hermione's hand.

The afternoon passed by quickly. Mrs. Potter turned out to be something of a fashionista and demanded to know where Hermione had gotten 'that enchanting ensemble.' Hermione obviously could not tell her that the peacoat had been a product of an end-of-winter sale at a department store, and the rest of her outfit was mostly just her uniform. Mr. Potter was grilling Geoffrey on the Quidditch game, and was disgusted to learn that Alphard had caught the Snitch. His way of handling it was to grumble something about how the Blacks were a family of no-good rich brats that dabbled too much in the Dark Arts for their own good.

But the really interesting part of the afternoon was Garret. Garret was taking a brief break from his work as an Auror. For the last year or so, he had been hunting Grindelwald. In his elegant, refined robes and cologne, Garret hardly seemed fit to hunt Grindelwald, but somehow, Hermione could tell that Garret was much sharper than he let on. Every time that he wasn't speaking, Hermione noticed him discretely looking round the pub. She'd also noted that he did not accept a butterbeer, instead covertly slipping out a jeweled flask. He regaled her with tales of his travels. Considering Hermione's love of reading, she took indecent pleasure in hearing about how Garret was involved in a lot of important events in the wizardign world. All in all, the afternoon was more fun and less awkward than Hermione could have ever anticipated, and she was sorry to have to say goodbye to the Potters. Mrs. Potter and Garret both enveloped her in overly tight embraces, begging her to write to them as much as possible. Mr. Potter looked horrified at the display of affection, and instead settled for shaking Hermione's hand and wishing her well at school.

When they had Apparated back home, Hermione and Geoffrey left the Three Broomsticks in companionable silence. For a few moments they walked through the streets together, perusing the window displays and enjoying each other's company. Finally, Hermione spoke.

"Garret's quite the character," she commented carefully. Geoffrey scoffed.

"You'd never know it, but he's bloody brilliant."

"You're very smart too, Geoffrey," Hermione said immediately, knowing exactly what was going through Geoffrey's mind. "And you're an excellent Quidditch player," she added. This was a lie, but sometimes that was what people needed. Geoffrey seemed to perk up.

"I know I'm not good enough at it," he began nervously, "but I always dreamed of playing professionally."

Hermione smiled at him, and he returned it briefly. Still, now she wondered how Geoffrey's life would go. She was _positive_ that Garret was Harry's grandfather…would Geoffrey ever have children? They walked about Hogsmeade some more. Suddenly, Geoffrey looked at her. He looked thoughtful.

"Y'know…I reckon Black does actually like you, after all," he said contemplatively as they walked. The sky was beginning to darken; little patches of light from the windows left golden squares on the ground. At Geoffrey's words, Hermione tensed.

"Wh-why's that?"

"During the match, he couldn't take his eyes off you," Geoffrey explained. He stopped walking for a moment and turned to her. "But the thing is…I think Riddle actually likes you too."

"That's impossible," Hermione said immediately, and began walking again. Geoffrey hastened to catch up.

"No, it isn't. You don't understand because you're new…but it's like Weasley said. Those two used to be really good mates. And I always thought that the only thing that could make me and Rupert stop being friends was if we were having a row about a girl."

Logically, Hermione knew it was impossible. It was likely that Alphard did actually like her…but she knew that Tom had never had or wanted a best friend, and he did not understand love. The thought made her chest tighten. "Eh, whatever," Geoffrey finally said. Hermione saw him squinting in the direction of Tingling Spines. "Maybe this whole love thing is stupid anyway."

Hermione thought of Ron, of how she had pictured walking up the aisle toward him. The white dress, the stained glass, her mother crying tears of joy… Her heart itself seemed to ache.

"It's not stupid," she said softly. "It's the most important thing in the entire world."

Geoffrey immediately guffawed and lightly punched her in the upper arm.

"Now you're just sounding like Garret, and it's grossing me out," he confided before making grotesque retching noises. The atmosphere killed, Hermione laughed at him and he soon joined her. Still, her melancholy from before had returned abruptly. Was she missing out on her only chance left in life at love by spurning Alphard?

They met up with Rupert and Amelia who looked decidedly flushed; Geoffrey was in such a good mood that he even teased Rupert and Amelia about what they had been up to for the past few hours. Rupert and Amelia, unsurprisingly, were unwilling to give any details.

As they walked back to the castle, they crossed paths with the Slytherins again. There was the usual hateful banter between Geoffrey and Alphard, but then there was the sly wink that Tom sent Hermione's way before they continued on. Abruptly Hermione was reminded of what had passed between them during the Quidditch match as well as what had occurred a few nights before. For the seconds after Tom had winked, she held his gaze, and when he broke the eye contact and passed her, their fingertips brushed.

For all of her worrying about Alphard, Hermione found she could think only of Tom and little else for the rest of that day.

* * *

><p>With the holidays only a few weeks away, it was difficult for Hermione to give as much interest ot her studies as she normally might—not because of a vacation, per se, but because of the whole reason for her being at Hogwarts at all. The time for her mission to begin was drawing nearer, and she strangely found herself dreading it.<p>

She had arranged with Dumbledore to have a room in the Hog's Head for break, and her plan was to simply Apparate to her various destinations. This way, she could easily return to the castle for the Yule Ball. Any time she thought of the upcoming ball, butterflies began to flutter in her stomach. She wondered if her dress would get the same sort of reaction from everyone that it had in her own time. The silvery dress robes were much more grownup than her periwinkle robes that she had worn in her fourth year. She would not allow herself to ponder what Tom's reaction might be.

In classes, things stayed the same. Now she was partners with Amelia during Herbology, though the times when she and Alphard managed to make eye contact were painful. There was longing in Alphard's eyes buried underneath a certain defensiveness. Yet neither of them could bring themselves to approach the other. Tom, of course, seemed to look at this with great amusement. During Potions, Slughorn did not desist trying to get Hermione to attend the Yule Ball with Tom. Merrythought and Isopseph might possibly have been in on this mission as well; Hermione was positive that even timid little Isopseph had intimated something about how Hermione and Tom would look good together during one class.

In Ancient Runes, Hermione was pleased to note that Tom hadn't been kidding about Vanlandingham's wardrobe. Decked out in enough fur to masquerade as a bear (or Hagrid), Professor Vanlandingham sauntered in for the last class before the holidays. Most of the students were not paying much attention, though as usual, Hermione and Tom sat at the front, awaiting the beginning of the lesson. After a few half-hearted attempts to teach, Vanlandingham declared it useless to try.

"We are going to do a fun little activity today," she announced with a toss of her long dark hair. That got everyone's attention. Professor Vanlandingham theatrically shrugged off her furs, revealing one of her iconic velvet skintight floor-length dresses. The furs pooled on the ground around her grotesquely; Hermione's first thought was of a bear being skinned. "As we all know, runes have been believed to have protecting and healing powers. Many people use this," at this, she tugged on a long silver chain that hung inside her dress in her cleavage. On the end was a milky stone that had been shaped to come to a sharp-looking point. "Which is a stele, to draw runes on themselves. Watch and learn." She slipped one of the shoulders of her dress off, revealing her upper arm and most of her bra. Hermione slapped her palm to her forehead in exasperation. "Now I will draw a rune for healing," she explained, and dipped the stele in ink before drawing the healing rune on her shoulder.

Before Hermione realized what she was doing, she glanced to Tom, and they shared a private look of pure disdain. His lips curled into a wicked half-smirk, his eyes sparking with amusement. _Absurd,_ he mouthed, and Hermione agreed heartily. "So you see, now I am given a healing rune. You all will practice drawing runes on each other today with your deskmates."

The class was in a dither about the activity; Tom and Hermione turned to each other.

"I'm only giving you a healing rune if it means you have to partially or fully undress," he said in a serious tone. Hermione narrowed her eyes at him and accepted one of the steles that Vanlandingham passed out without taking her glower away from Tom.

"I wonder if there's a silencing rune," she said conversationally, flicking through the pages of her textbook. "Hmm. Would it be under "silence" or "shut the bloody hell up" do you think?"

"Language, Hermione," Tom tsked, shaking his head. He was skimming his text as well. "Howabout I go first?" At her death glare, he added with a grin, "I promise you may stay clothed."

"Oh, thank you," she said sarcastically, turning to face him in her seat. He did the same and dipped the borrowed stele in ink. "Which one are you going to draw?"

"You'll see. Hold out your hand," he ordered cryptically. Reluctantly Hermione held out her right hand. As he delicately took her hand, their eyes met. Goosebumps formed along Hermione's skin and she clenched her teeth to keep the strange feelings at bay. Seeing him looking down at her hand, concentrating, made her heart beat faster. _He's left-handed._ She didn't know why this simple fact gave her pause, but there was something about it that was beckoning. _I always loved the idea of a left-handed man._

She ordered herself to focus, but how could she when their knees were brushing, when his hands felt so cool and dry against her sweaty palms? The ink was icy on the back of her hand, and sparks of warmth shot along her arm as their fingertips brushed. He looked up again slowly; she did not miss the way his eyes seemed to take in every part of her, lingering on her lips, before meeting her own eyes. "Done," he said softly, letting go of her hand. Hermione looked down at her hand.

"What is it?" she didn't recognize the rune. Tom's lips curved into a small, private smile.

"I didn't think you'd recognize it," he admitted. Irritated by his condescension, Hermione kicked him (for their legs were so close when they were facing each other like this) and turned to her book, flipping through the pages. Finally she found it, and her breath caught in her throat.

He had drawn the rune for desire.

"Carnal desire," she finally said with forced nonchalance. "Interesting choice. Now, it's my turn. Give me your hand." She cleared her throat, knowing Tom was studying and enjoying how red her cheeks were. He held out his left hand and she took it, studying the back of it thoughtfully, as though pretending to debate over what to draw. In reality, she knew exactly the rune she would draw.

Why did her breathing have to quicken so? But it did, as she sat there, bent over his hand, carefully drawing with the stele. Their knees brushed; she was using her thighs to lean on as she drew, which meant his wrist was pressed against them. The black, shining ink against his pale skin was a thing of beauty.

When she finally pulled away, satisfied with her work, their eyes met again, and his gaze was scorching. He studied his hand.

"Power," she clarified for him. "Power over others."

"Interesting choice," he mimicked her, his tone insinuating. "And it's interesting how well our choices go together."

After class, Hermione went to the restroom and splashed cold water on her face with shaking hands. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes bright. Unable to calm down, she raked her wet hands through her hair and exhaled unsteadily before leaving the bathroom. Tom was outside, and seemed surprised to see her. Her heart nearly stopped when she remembered that that bathroom was indeed Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.

"The rune doesn't come off," Tom greeted, holding up his own hand. "Howabout yours?"

Hermione was about to simply hold up her hand when he grabbed it to see, thus jerking her forward. She nearly stumbled into his chest and drew back hastily, slamming into the closed door behind her.

"G-good thing most people don't know how to read runes," Hermione stammered, just barely recovering from the contact. She couldn't help but notice how very alone they were.

"Where are you going for holiday?" Tom changed the subject swiftly. "Going back to Surrey with your parents?"

Hermione considered lying; but what if she ran into Tom in Hogsmeade by accident over the break? It'd be complicated to lie.

"No, I'm staying in Hogsmeade and doing day trips around the area, as my parents will be abroad," she explained, trying to slide against the wall and effectively away from Tom. He immediately braced a hand on one side of her, barring her from getting away.

"Strange," he said lightly. "Most students either stay here or simply travel with their parents."

"I wanted to go to the Yule Ball, but I do have some traveling to do," Hermione said quickly. Tom studied her silently for a moment before again taking her hand and looking down at the rune. His thumb brushed against it. When he raised his eyes to meet hers, it was such a burning look that Hermione was now grateful for the support of the wall behind her. "You did a good job drawing the rune," she commented lightly after swallowing over a lump in her throat.

"Or your skin is lovely, with a lovely and ancient character on it," Tom suggested, his tone equally light. Hermione fought to keep her wits about her, but this close and this alone, it was hard, especially after what had been occurring between them lately.

"Trying to tell me something?" she teased. "Was there a reason for your drawing the rune for desire?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps there was a reason for your drawing the rune for power over others," Tom parried easily, still holding onto her hand. He traced the lines of it with his thumb. It was an electrifying motion; Hermione had to get away from him before she lost all reason. She yanked her hand back and in response, Tom grabbed her wrist and pinned her against the closed door with his body. "Maybe, Hermione, _you _are trying to tell me something."

His scent was unbearably tantalizing; if she just leaned against him, she could inhale it….Hermione licked her lips, for her mouth was dry. She regretted the action when she realized how it could be taken.

"You like having power over others," she reasoned, fighting to keep her tone still light. Tom's lips curled into that beautiful smirk. "Not that that's a good thing," she added.

"You're right. I do appreciate and respect power, just as you do. Funny how closely desire and power are…" he paused as though searching for the right word. In that moment, they had somehow moved imperceptibly closer. "…Entwined." His grip tightened on her wrist. Hermione tried not to breathe, as when she did, her chest touched his.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that he could do this, have this kind of power over her. He was unfortunately right: she _did_ appreciate and respect power, and right now, she certainly desired power. She wished for power over him, power to make _him_ just as flustered and unsure and filled with desire as he was so capable of making her.

Feeling reckless—perhaps due to lack of air—she reached out with her free hand and touched his cheek tenderly. His dark eyes followed her hand, her heart was pounding. His cheek was smooth and cool to the touch. The tips of her fingers reached his hair.

"Funny how desire can be used as power," she said finally, tracing her hand to his neck. Tom turned his head and gave her a last look of wickedness before tilting his head, his lips brushing against the inside of her wrist.

"You're right. It _is _funny, isn't it?" he said against her skin. She could feel the tip of his tongue flicker against her skin as he spoke, feel his lips move, smooth and dry in contrast to the rough wetness of his tongue. Hermione let out a shudder of complete and utter surprise; she was becoming dizzy from lack of air. Their chests made contact as she breathed but she hardly noticed. "And how desire for power can so often corrupt a more innocent person," Tom added. The friction of his lips and tongue against her wrist were driving her to insanity. In the pale light, she could see his adam's apple move as he spoke, see the tendons in his neck as he turned, see his beautiful jaw move. As it was later in the day, she could see the beginnings of stubble; how she longed to feel it against her skin. She would have delighted in the contrast between them: the lean, hard planes of his body against her softer curves, the scratchiness of his stubble against her own smooth cheek…

And then she discovered it: her fingers curled against his skin, and beneath his jaw she found his pulse. Rapid, irregular beats fluttered against her fingertips. Hermione felt her mouth widening in a grin just as wicked as Tom's.

"Your heart is racing," she whispered in delight.

"This is a dangerous game you're playing, Hermione. Because…" he paused and slipped one hand inside her robes. Hermione gasped and tried to step back, but there was no room: she was already cornered. His fingers brushed past her sweater to rest against her heart. The only things separating his hand from her skin were the thin cloth of her bra as well as her white blouse. His eyes had darkened with lust. "…your heart is racing even faster."


	31. 31: Pas De Deux

Bad Romance

Author's note: You guys completely blow me away every time I update. I know I always say this, but seriously, your reviews always completely make my day. Some of your reviews and PMs after the last chapter literally left me speechless.

One of you, 'Bladetrixart' left an unsigned review with two suggestions. I have to say that, for the most part, I have a clear idea of the course of this story, and so I cannot take major plot suggestions. That being said, your suggestions happen to align with the plot of this story. As you may have noticed, Hermione has already decided to learn Occlumency. The other suggestion…well, you'll just have to wait and see.

I am so insecure about this chapter. I don't even know what to do. After I officially post this, I can promise you guys that I will be checking my email in pure anguish every ten seconds. PLEASE REVIEW! (not that i'll die or anything)

Chapter Thirty One: Pas De Deux

After a start-of-holiday feast, Hermione walked with her trunk down to Hogsmeade in the snow. Geoffrey was so struck with Christmas cheer (it might have been attributable to Minerva McGonagall being spotted meeting with Dumbledore, apparently at Hogwarts for a meeting) that he even offered to accompany her to the Hog's Head, but Hermione begged off, saying that he ought to wait around for the chance to talk to Minerva as she was leaving. Geoffrey did not need telling twice, and so she ventured down along the path in the growing darkness. Her emotional turmoil from how she had spent her afternoon was enough to keep her brooding and silent; she did not wish for company at this time.

Aberforth showed her to her room, which was a grubby little closet-sized 'suite' above the bar. Still, it had a bed and a desk, and the window had a decent view of Hogwarts. After she lit some candles and stacked her books on the desk, the space looked decidedly more cheery. She would be here for two weeks, and so she'd have time to make it feel more like a home.

She tried to study, and she tried to focus on her mission, but she was overwhelmed. As midnight approached, Hermione found herself voluntarily standing in the silent snow, staring up at the castle. Tom was in there. What was he thinking of? Was he as unsettled as she? She recalled the flutter of his pulse against her fingertips. Who would have thought that Lord Voldemort could experience something as simple, as mortal, as a quickening heartbeat? Was he disgusted with himself for having such a reaction to her, or was he not even concerned by it at all?

When Hermione tried to sleep, she found she could not. Thus she applied herself to her work, even though it was so difficult to focus: hours were devoted to her research of Horcruxes and of Tom's future footsteps. She even gave a few hours to Occlumency. By the time Hermione finally became simply too exhausted to remain awake, the pale light of dawn snuck icy fingers up her windowpane. Her candles were nearly gone out; Hermione missed the figure that entered her room to extinguish the last of the candles and cover her shoulders with her blanket. Hermione missed how the figure caught sight of her work, how they sighed sadly before leaving the room, sparing Hermione's hunched, sleeping form one more pitying glance. And she missed how their footsteps creaked along the hall, and how an owl swept past her window up to the castle, bearing a note for Dumbledore.

* * *

><p>It was no good.<p>

In exasperation, Hermione tried to tug on her hair a bit, but there was simply nothing doing: the Yule Ball was hours away, and Hermione still roughly resembled a drowned mountain troll. From her splintered sleeping and eating habits over the past few days, she looked sickly and pale, and her hair had lost its usual luster. The sacrifice had seemed worth it at the time: she now had a set schedule for the rest of the holidays with a detailed plan, and her Occlumency was getting better… though she had no one to practice with, so it might have been her imagination.

But now Hermione was panicking. As a last resort, she ran to Aberforth and borrowed an owl. Aberforth lent her an owl with a strange, cagey look that Hermione chalked up to his usual suspicions, and though she could not believe she was doing it, she owled Mrs. Potter. _Desperate times call for desperate measures,_ she thought wryly as she watched the owl flap away into the early afternoon. She began pacing frantically, and then came to the conclusion that the owl would probably not return for at least an hour—and if she spent an hour in her room, waiting, she might lose her mind or run a trench in the wooden floor with her enthusiastic pacing.

Hermione ventured out into the icy Christmas Eve air, wearing the same outfit she had worn to meet the Potters. She walked by Madam Kilfeather's shop with an idea of getting preparation advice from Madam Kilfeather, but when she peered inside, her heart momentarily stopped: a familiar tall, svelte outline and gleaming wavy hair met her eyes. Tom was being fitted for his dress robes, apparently. For a moment, she stood transfixed as he shrugged off the robes, revealing his undershirt and bare arms, which were surprisingly lean and wiry. Hermione gasped and began swiftly walking away, her face burning enough to melt all of the snow in Hogsmeade.

With nothing to accomplish by wandering, Hermione was left with no choice but to return to her room and wait. When she entered her room, she was met with a blast of flowery, exotic perfume. _Did Mrs. Potter Apparate here?_ But no, the owl she had sent was perched at her window, clutching pale lavender parchment that bore a silvery seal. The parchment itself had been perfumed.

_Dear lovely, lovely Hermione,_

_I would be delighted to help you prepare for the ball! Oh, this is going to be so much fun! I'll bring all of the necessary items, so no need to worry, dearie! I'll arrive at the Hog's Head shortly!_

_Love,_

_Gwenevere P. _

_PS. I suppose all of the rooms at the Three Broomsticks were taken? You should have contacted us! We would have simply adored to have you stay for the holidays! _

Hermione chuckled at the note, especially at the unnecessary punctuation, and then tidied up while she waited for Mrs. Potter. With a loud crack and a blast of the same perfume, Mrs. Potter had arrived, looking a bit disoriented at the rather un-glamorous surroundings. Especially in her silky robes that today were a lovely peach brocade, Mrs. Potter clearly did not belong in the Hog's Head. When she saw Hermione, she let out a horrified shriek, clapping her hands to her mouth.

"Hermione!" she cried out, creeping forward, her eyes wide. "You look _dreadful._ Are you ill?"

"Er…no," Hermione said flatly, feeling humiliated. She then noticed the large, expensive looking leather suitcase at Mrs. Potter's side. "Were you…er…planning on staying overnight?"

"Oh, Merlin no, sweetie. However…" Mrs. Potter unzipped the suitcase, and an enormous mahogany wardrobe popped out of it, taking up most of the room. "I just _knew_ it was the right thing to pack a few extra things," she muttered to herself as she threw open the doors of the wardrobe. "Show me your robes, dear."

Sheepishly, Hermione retrieved the silvery gown that now seemed rather plain next to Mrs. Potter's outfit, waiting for her to shriek at them as well. But when Geoffrey's mother let out a soft gasp and delicately took the robes, Hermione knew they met her approval. "Perfect," she sighed. "I have just the thing!" she hung the robes with a wave of her wand and rounded on Hermione, a fierce look on her beautiful face. "Now, sit down," she ordered.

Hermione obeyed. While she was glad that she had enlisted Mrs. Potter's help, she also had the feeling that she was likely to be exhausted by the time she reached the Ball.

* * *

><p>She was running late. Hermione approached Hogwarts along the path from Hogsmeade, panting as she hurried along. Her gown was rather constricting, but Mrs. Potter had insisted on lacing it up tighter, muttering something about how it would 'put items of interest closer to eye level.' With the horrifying realization that Mrs. Potter was fine with her son ogling Hermione's chest, Hermione had secretly loosened the strings of the dress slightly so that she could at least <em>breathe.<em> She smirked as she pictured herself fainting and Geoffrey stepping back in disgust, not making a move to catch her prone form.

Even from outside, she could already hear the music emanating from the Great Hall. It seemed to be a string quartet, playing a lilting, romantic waltz. Hermione's breath caught as the doors of the Great Hall opened as she approached, revealing a familiar figure silhouetted by the golden light from inside. She knew he had already spotted her; it was too late to hide and wait till he had passed.

"Merry Christmas, Alphard," Hermione said softly when she came face-to-face with the Slytherin Seeker. In robes of the deepest emerald, he looked hauntingly like Sirius, and it took Hermione a moment to realize why. He had lost weight since she had last seen him, and bruises and cuts marred his once-boyish face. Had it really only been a few days since the break had begun? He seemed like he had been in Azkaban for years.

Alphard stared at her, speechless. There was a painful moment when he seemed to realize that she had taken in his appearance. "What happened to you?" she murmured. Alphard's normally warm eyes seemed dark with something that Hermione could not place, but it was his eyes that today truly made him resemble Sirius. She saw his Adam's apple move up and down as he swallowed.

"You look beautiful, Hermione. As you always do," he said in a leaden tone. "I just came out here to get some air; I saw Potter was looking for you." He turned away abruptly, his hair falling in his face and hiding his bruised cheekbone from her view. She couldn't bring herself to leave him; as he stepped away from the doors, they shut, leaving them in the darkness and icy December air. Snow was falling around them, soft and silent and somehow mournful.

"Alphard—"

"Go," Alphard commanded flatly. "Just go."

"But—" she began again, stepping toward him. She placed her hand on his shoulder and he violently shook it off.

"I don't want to see you, Hermione," he said, his tone icier than the weather.

Feeling like she might cry, Hermione swallowed her tears and pushed into the Great Hall. But when she stepped inside, her troubling encounter with Alphard was momentarily cast aside.

The Great Hall looked incredible. Twinkling bits of colorful light seemed to float like fireflies among the students; the music reverberated off the walls magically. It was a romantic sight, to see the swish of silky dress robes as people waltzed beneath the jewel-like fairy lights. It took Hermione's breath away and she forgot to look for Geoffrey for a moment. When she did, she found him staring at her, his jaw hanging open. Next to him were Amelia and Rupert with similar reactions. Students who had noticed her were also staring at her in shock, whispering. It was deja vu only more potent: she had not gotten quite _this_ strong of a reaction. In her peripheral vision she noticed girls slapping their dates who stared at Hermione in awe. She wasn't vain and had no desire to steal any boyfriends, but it was still pleasing to know that she was capable of garnering such attention.

She was searching the crowd with her eyes for Tom before she could stop herself; he was obscured from view by other students but she could just make out his gleaming dark hair.

"Hermione, you look fantastic!" Amelia's ecstatic voice shook her from her searching. The Hufflepuff girl threw her arms around Hermione. "Look at the boys," she whispered conspiratorially with a giggle. Hermione shot Geoffrey a grin; he was still staring in complete shock at her, his mouth hanging open in a fishlike manner.

"Geoffrey, close your mouth. Your mother would be horrified at your manners," Hermione greeted him. Geoffrey shut his mouth with a snap but did not take his eyes off Hermione. Nor did Rupert, which luckily did not seem to bother Amelia too much.

"Oh, Hermione, how did you _do_ it?" Amelia asked as she circled Hermione. Hermione smiled but did not give away that she had gotten some help.

The truth was that Mrs. Potter had outdone herself. With potions and products that Hermione could never have dreamed of, Mrs. Potter had given her hair a stunning amount of shine while still leaving her hair down and in its natural curl. It fell past her shoulders in gleaming ringlets. She'd done her makeup in such a way that when Hermione looked in the mirror, she was shocked at her own reflection…yet she could not pinpoint what, exactly, was different. She looked like herself, only beautiful. Silvery earrings fell nearly to her shoulders and mostly disappeared in her curls, so that occasionally, when the earrings caught the light, her hair seemed to sparkle.

Hermione's personal touch had been to hastily hide the scar from Bellatrix magically, before Mrs. Potter or anyone could see it. Still, she had not left her forearms bare in a long time because of that scar, and she couldn't help but subconsciously hold her arm against her side.

"Don't just stand there, Geoffrey! Ask her to dance!" Amelia squealed, giving Geoffrey a hearty push. Geoffrey turned puce, and without making eye contact with Hermione, stepped forward and grasped her hand awkwardly before leading her out to waltz among the students. It was with heady delight that Hermione fell into step with Geoffrey, realizing that everywhere, people were stopping mid-dance and mid-conversation to stare at Hermione in shock. Her cheeks warmed with pleasure that couldn't be ruined, even by Geoffrey's horrid dancing skills. At least he was better than Krum…marginally, anyway.

"Hermione, I might consider actually dating you if you looked like this more often," Geoffrey finally said as they awkwardly staggered about in a sad imitation of a waltz. He often stepped on her feet, but she didn't care. She trained her eyes on Geoffrey's shoulder, careful to not let her eyes wander, lest she search for Tom again. Still…she _ached_ to know what his reaction might be. Realistically, she knew he would not care one way or the other. And yet, they had not spoken since that moment by the Chamber of Secrets…was he as consumed by the memory of the contact between them as she?

"I'm flattered, Geoffrey. Truly," she said dryly as her shoulder was nearly dislocated when Geoffrey suddenly deemed it a good time to twirl her. Geoffrey smirked at her.

"You ought to be," he said seriously. "I'll have you know there's a line…a long one. Lucky girl." Luckily, as they danced, he seemed to be getting the hang of waltzing a bit, and soon his footwork was almost not lethal. She felt him studying her. "Why'd you do it, anyway? I know it isn't for me." He didn't seem offended in the least, and Hermione was pleased that they had already become such good friends. She rolled her eyes at him.

"Sometimes," she began condescendingly, "I simply like to get a bit dressed up!"

"Right," Geoffrey said, matching her tone, "And sometimes, I simply like to renounce Quidditch and join the ballet. Hermione, whose attention were you hoping to catch?"

"No one's, Geoffrey," she said hastily, but when Geoffrey went to twirl her again, she smacked into something hard. She stepped back dizzily as Geoffrey let go of her hand awkwardly.

Of course. She had smacked into Tom Riddle.

Their eyes met. His dress robes were black and heightened how dark his hair and eyes were compared to his pale skin. It was a good contrast, however. He could not have looked more perfect. As his lips curved into that half-smirk, she could only marvel at him. He was a thing of beauty, a work of art. Madam Kilfeather had outdone herself with his robes, but of course, he had given her the perfect canvas on which to practice her art. He seemed even taller, even more elegant, and radiated power in a way that no other seventeen year old boy possibly could. The difference between him and all of the other young men there was staggering.

"May I cut in?" Tom's baritone voice shook Hermione from her daze; he was looking at Geoffrey. With a last smirk to her from Geoffrey, the Potter boy nodded quickly.

"Like I could say no," he said cryptically, and with a short bow, left them on the dance floor amid the waltzing couples. Hermione found she could not catch her breath. Had her dress tightened somehow? She was aware of how her chest heaved so obviously; her gown was not low-cut but certainly showed off more than she was accustomed to, and with it tied so tight, it had an effect that she noted Tom seemed greatly intrigued by, as his impossibly dark eyes roved along her body, taking their time to come back to her face. She should have been offended, but then again, being offended at Lord Voldemort ogling her was really, in the end, completely beside the point.

"You look nice," she stammered when she had finally regained the ability to unstick her throat and use her vocal cords. Tom's smile was one that was for her only. He arched one elegant brow, his eyes still on hers.

"You are beautiful," he said simply. Hermione did not miss the wording; it was significant. She thought of the runes, and she thought of the sight of his lean arms as he shrugged off the black robes, the way his shoulders had rolled so sinuously with the motion. Suddenly it was far too warm in the Great Hall; Hermione wished to be lying outside in the snow, though it might not be cold enough to bring her back to a normal temperature. Tom swept into a low bow and took her hand. "May I have this dance?"

"You're a prat," Hermione said hotly, but all the same, she slipped her hand into his. He guided her hand to his shoulder, then his hand was on her waist, and then the world was a blur of color and light and music, but it mattered not. There was only his scent and the feel of their fingers entwined; she did not even register that they were moving, though she knew they must have been waltzing. They were so close that Hermione thought she could melt into him. She shut her eyes, trying to picture the map of his Horcruxes, trying to picture Harry and Ron's faces, trying to picture how he would look in fifty years. And yet these were thoughts that only heightened her emotions, for his beauty and charm were so short-lived. Soon it would all end, and then he would simply be Lord Voldemort. This Tom Riddle was a sliver of time, a single heartbeat in the universe, and she was here too to witness it.

"Funny how the world of Muggles so often invades ours," Tom mused. His chest vibrated with his words; she wanted to pull away but could not. He was speaking against her ear; they were nearly cheek to cheek thanks to Hermione's heels and the way Tom leant forward. "This is the waltz from Swan Lake," he explained.

"Only girly boys would know that," she argued, for she could find no other way to express the feelings welling up inside her.

"You find me girly? You might want to question your own…._interests, _then," he teased softly, his breath tickling her ear.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said immediately. Tom's fingers dug into her waist.

"_Why_ must you always play this game?" his voice had a new edge to it. Hermione was intrigued.

"What game?" she asked innocently. Absently she recognized the familiar rise and fall of the waltz; Swan Lake had always been her favorite. It was a mark of how truly disarmed she was that she had failed to hear it at all before this moment.

"Pretending you do not want me. Why bother?"

"Why does it bother you so much? And I don't see how you can think I'm pretending anything. I'm not attracted to you," she retorted in a hiss. His fingers dug in further as he pulled her closer. Their bodies were pressed tightly against each other. Still the waltz continued, and still she found herself leaning forward to better inhale his scent.

"It's fascinating. It's like you have forbidden yourself from wanting me…yet we all know that with spirits such as yours, telling oneself 'no' is the ultimate aphrodisiac."

"Spirits such as mine?" she asked, her voice less cool than it had been before, for his lips were against her ear again. She could not stop herself from closing her eyes, just for a moment, and relishing the way shivers ran up and down her spine. "Have you heard of a term in Muggle psychology, called 'projection?'" She did not wait for his answer. "When you have feelings you cannot deal with, you project them onto another. For example: if you've lied about something, then you accuse your friend of lying. By projecting your situation onto another, it allows you to distance yourself from your own feelings and regain your inner balance."

"I have no desire to distance myself from my feelings, if that's what you are suggesting." How could he stay so calm? She despised him for it.

"So you're saying you completely accept your own…" she could not complete her sentence. A pause as Tom twirled her; their arms were outstretched, their fingers still entwined. There was a rush of blessedly cooler air that was nullified when she spun back to him and saw the heat in his eyes. When he pulled her back up against him, she simply_ had_ to hold onto him. Her knees were too weak; she clutched at his shoulders. Her hands traced down to his chest and she felt his heart beating fast. They stared at each other. She could faintly hear the notes of Swan Lake: it was reaching its climax as they gazed at each other, perfectly still. His hands were at the small of her back, and suddenly, she registered him noting the ties of the lacing of her dress.

"One tug and this would all come undone? How very coy of you," he teased as he leant down, their foreheads touching. She could taste his breath; it was of pumpkin juice. "Sometimes, there is nothing more powerfully suggestive to a man than a woman completely and notably covered up. You've given me more imagery than the most revealing gowns here."

The waltz ended, and with a last burning look, she felt Tom's fingers linger at the ties of her dress before they parted as he was called for by Augusta.

"Get a bloody room next time," someone said irritably next to her. Hermione jumped, startled, to find Amelia and Rupert gazing at her with unreadable expressions and Geoffrey scowling. "Now everyone is going to think I'm less of a man because Tom Riddle and you basically just had s—"

"Geoffrey!" Amelia scolded indignantly before rounding on Hermione, her eyes wide as saucers. "What was that?" she asked in a stage-whisper. Hermione had trouble finding her voice.

"Nothing. I don't know what you're all talking about!" she said in a loud voice. "Come on, let's get drinks. Isn't it very warm in here?"

"Well, after that graphic display—" Geoffrey began, but was silenced promptly when Hermione 'accidentally' trod on his foot with her heeled shoe. It was then that she spotted Alphard, dancing with Hyacinth…but his eyes were on her.

The Yule Ball continued on; Hermione even got a chance to sit with Dumbledore and managed to slip in a request for Occlumency lessons. They agreed to discuss it later, though Hermione was puzzled by the searching look that the future headmaster gave her. Feeling unsettled, Hermione managed to sidestep both Tom and Alphard for the rest of the evening. She danced with Geoffrey most of the time and even had a dance with Rupert. Nearby, Geoffrey was scowling as Amelia insisted on being the leader as they danced. Hermione only caught Amelia making a remark about how she had to lead, as Geoffrey was shorter than her, and Hermione was shocked to find Amelia still alive when she saw them again. Rupert did not comment on her dance with Tom, and she was endlessly grateful for it. She had been carefully warding off the urge to relive their waltz, for she knew if she gave in to it, she might actually be driven to insanity.

The clock struck twelve and Hermione bade her friends good night. She was eager to return to the safety of her room, for it was there that she was not at risk for interacting with Tom again. Alone, she gathered the skirts of her silvery gown and fled the Great Hall. The snowflakes were icy against her bare skin, but it felt soothing. She was halfway to the village when she heard the crunching of footsteps. She stopped in resignation and wished dearly for her wand as she glanced over her shoulder without turning fully. A few feet away, Tom stood there in the snow, the white fluffy flakes dotting his dark hair and robes, his breath clouding before him.

"Running away?" he asked slyly, though there was a breathless quality to his voice. She registered that he had been running, and she faced forward again. She was no longer cold at all. She could hear his footsteps crunching through the snow again as he approached.

"No, I'm going to bed," she said primly, proud of herself that her voice did not quaver at all. She heard him chuckle softly.

"Going to bed alone, looking like that? Nonsense."

"I am indeed going to bed alone," she began, concentrating on the jewel-like squares of light emanating from the village, for it was easier if she focused on something normal, visceral, stable, and real, as this situation was the exact opposite of those things. "Because I _want_ to."

"A girl who wears a dress that can be so easily undone never wishes to go to bed alone," Tom argued softly, and again she heard him stepping forward, until he stood behind her, inches from her. "Or do you enjoy being a tease?"

"I'm not teasing anyone. I liked this dress," she retorted steadily. She clenched her fists so hard that her nails dug into her palm. Idly she thought about how she might draw blood, but she did not register the pain. "You always willfully ignore everything I say," she blurted suddenly.

"Because you always willfully tell such lies." His voice had gone cold again; was he losing patience? For all of her resolve, seeing this sliver of his true character was beckoning her like a moth to the light…or rather, to the very blackest part of darkness. She could not resist.

"If you're so convinced, why don't you simply force me? Why bother trying to get me to admit to anything?" her voice did tremble now; she waited for his answer with bated breath. Still the snow did not feel cold. He scoffed, and she felt something at the knot at the base of the laces on her back.

"That would not be a victory," he said softly. "I must admit it was an option I considered. But…" he paused and she truly could not draw breath when she heard the sound of slipping fabric; the dress was loosening around her. Her arms had turned to lead and she could not recall how to use them to stop him, or to hold up her dress. "…I could do any number of things to force you, and then it would be meaningless. Any man could do that." A sharp, violent tug and she felt the silky robes begin to slide off her shoulders. His breath was hot in her ear as he nearly growled, "_Why_ do you always resist me? I know your true feelings, and yet I cannot prove that they exist at all. You are singularly the most insolent girl I have ever met."

"I thought I was the most infuriating witch you had ever met," she managed to whisper. Finally her arms had decided to work again, and she clutched the dress to her trembling form. She had not exposed anything private, and yet she felt naked. The dress was limp on her frame; she could feel the roughness of his robes against the skin between her shoulder blades. He was running a single fingertip along her spine, reminiscent of how he had run his wand along her spine the day that Slughorn had found them in the library. When he reached the middle of her back, he had reached the edge of her dress; he continued tugging it down. She was breathing now, gasping for breath that clouded in the air in front of her.

"Say yes," he whispered sibilantly. His lips and tongue flickered, serpentine, against her jawline; she closed her eyes. "You have been denying me for far too long, and I'm getting angry."

Heat crawled along her skin; sweat dripped down her spine as he reached around, his hand grazing the skin of her décolletage, before guiding her chin so she turned back to him.

And the most shocking thing was the lust, the frustration, the anger, and the pure _need_ burning like coal in his eyes, the way his fingers seemed to scald her as they slid along her jaw.

They were simply heartbeats in time. His eyelashes fluttered against her cheek; his scent was everywhere and she was drowning in him, her senses were lost in him.

And just as their lips began to touch, reality returned with biting frigidity. All she could do was gather her dress robes and run, even as they slid down her shoulders and trailed behind her like the snow.


	32. 32: Back to Black

Bad Romance

Author's Note: Hi, y'all. I am so cracked out thanks to vicodin, because a dental surgery thingy went wrong. Now I am in lots of pain. But ho ho—there are powerful painkillers and maddie (me) shall take them! Also: i love mcdonalds shakes. I didn't know I loved them. But I tried one because my teeth hurt so much. now I have ruined my diet. But if you're going to be a fatty, it may as well be due to consuming delicious things. Now I am sitting here in bed writing this. I have been in bed all day. Usually I have a routine, where I get up at six am every morning and put on some makeup and a cute outfit. But today…I am in stained gray sweats and a tee shirt that says "Tech Zone" on it. And my hair looks like I stuck a fork in a socket. Tee hee.

Also another thing that makes me go tee hee: please review! Reviews are delicious, low calorie things that make Maddie smile!

One more thing: the title for this chapter is way too perfect. On so many levels. YAY. But: poor amy winehouse.

Chapter Thirty Two: Back to Black

In years to come, Hermione would always be stunned by the fact that she made it back to the Hog's Head in one piece. She had lost the capability to think consciously on her actions, and merely was passenger in her own body as she hurtled along the path. By the time she reached Aberforth's bar, she was panting and gasping for air and had to lean against the side of the building for support. Inside was still a lively crowd, and before venturing inside, Hermione faced the hopeless task of making it look like she _hadn't_ been undressed moments ago. After retying the dress and combing her fingers through her hair, Hermione gathered her soaked skirts and went inside.

As expected, her arrival garnered a certain amount of attention (though Hermione could not conjure a place where such an arrival _wouldn't_ garner attention, except perhaps a whorehouse). Hermione pointedly ignored them and swept through the filthy bar to the darkened corridor on the other side, which led to the stairs and bathrooms. She wasn't prepared at all to run into Alphard there, who seemed to have been leaving the men's room.

"Alphard!" Hermione greeted in shock; they regarded each other in complete surprise. The little bit of light from the bar crept into their cranny and cast Alphard's face in high, painful relief. He looked a mess.

"Hermione?" there was a quality to his voice that was both disturbing and reassuring. He sounded loud, confident, and cheered, but having seen his condition earlier that night, Hermione got a bad feeling. She stepped closer to him, and sure enough, could smell the Firewhiskey. It wasn't just on his breath; he seemed to be radiating it from his very _pores. _Now she saw how he was clutching the banister of the stairs behind him for support. His hair hung in his eyes slightly, giving him a dangerous air. He seemed like a loose cannon, reminding Hermione of the wanted ads for Sirius.

"You're drunk," she said disdainfully. Alphard grinned.

"And you," he began, tilting her chin with one hand, "Are definitely not drunk enough." Hermione squirmed away from his touch; she backed into the wall with a thump.

"Alphard, you're a mess," said Hermione hopelessly. Alphard let out a callous laugh and stumbled across the hall, nearly ramming into her; he hit the wall with his shoulder instead and slumped against the grubby wooden paneling.

"So are you," he parried with another laugh. His voice had a strange, muffled quality due to the way his face was pressed against the wall. "Look at you, your hair's all wild and your dress is coming off."

Hermione flushed molten red but did not comment, instead opting to change the subject. Alphard's normally smooth and boyish face looked so beaten and haggard that she forgot about the tension between them and was filled only with sadness for this lost boy.

"Where did you get those cuts?" she asked softly, trying to help him stay on his feet. Alphard swayed; even though he was slim, she felt her arms buckle underneath his weight. Again she wished sorely for her wand. Alphard crumpled against her and buried his face in her neck.

"Have you ever been to the mountains, Hermione?" he mumbled into her hair. Hermione grunted a 'no' as she nearly fell to the ground due to his dead weight. The stairs were narrow and rickety; it would be difficult to take him up to her room. Her inhibitions lost due to her situation, Hermione rifled through Alphard's robes till she found his wand, secured in his belt loop. His shirt had come untucked from his pants and for a moment, her hand grazed his skin. It was burning hot; Alphard was completely stinking drunk.

"S-sorry," Hermione stammered, embarrassed at having touched him so suggestively (despite it being a complete accident). "I'm just trying to get you to my room; if you get caught this drunk you'll be in so much trouble," she explained.

"In trouble? It's too late for that," Alphard slurred, though he began vaulting himself up the stairs, making quite a loud racket. At one point, Hermione thought he might break the banister with the force of his stumbling; she followed him up the stairs cautiously, wincing every time he smacked into something, her hands held out as though watching a toddler walk for the first time.

"Too late?" Hermione asked when they finally made it to the second floor. She lit Alphard's wand as it was pitch-black in the corridor. Alphard fell against the wall and laughed again.

"Hermione, you're so sweet, and innocent," he said, "And you know so little of the ways of men."

"Alphard, I'm losing my patience for you," she snapped, and unceremoniously gripped his robes and began dragging him along the hall towards her own room. "Might I remind you that you're still in school and living under your parents' roof? You're hardly a man. And I think most men have more self-respect than to get so drunk," Hermione ranted in a hiss. She unlocked her door, grateful that she had had the foresight to hide all of her mission paraphernalia, and shoved Alphard inside. She lit the candles magically.

"I'm not talking about _me,_" he said in a giddy but condescending voice, as though he found her ignorance hilarious. He dropped onto her bed before she could stop him. "You tell me you know what Tom Riddle is. But _I,_" he paused, pointing to his chest, "think that you have no idea. Because I saw him undressing you tonight, and—"

"He didn't undress me," Hermione interrupted hotly. "And I would appreciate it if you stopped constantly spying on me." She felt her temper rising; to keep Alphard safe from her ire she set his wand on the bedside table and got him a glass of water from the pitcher on the desk. "Drink this; we need to get you sobered up." Alphard accepted the glass and sat up slightly, watching her as he gulped the water. He clumsily went to set it on the bedside table, but missed. The glass shattered on the floor. Alphard stared at the mess with a bemused expression as Hermione muttered _repair._

"He thinks I don't know," Alphard rambled, dropping back onto the bed. "But I know. I know what he is. The rest of them are bloody idiots. They don't see."

Hermione's blood had gone cold; she sat down on the edge of her bed and stared down at Alphard. "See what?"

"I met the giants this week, you know," Alphard continued to ramble. "I was supposed to get them to like me. Like us. Our goals."

"So you were in the mountains this week, and the giants did not take kindly to your arrival," Hermione confirmed in a whisper. Their eyes met for the first time.

"I don't know what to do," Alphard confessed. "It's too late to leave; I'm in too deep. And so are you."

"I am?" Hermione's adrenaline was pumping through her body. What was Alphard trying to say? She brushed his hair from his face, which was covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Some of his damp curls clung to his forehead. This close, Hermione could better study the cuts and bruises. They were rough and jagged—it must have hurt a lot. Alphard was still staring at her, and what she saw in his warm brown eyes was beckoning to her.

"He wants you," Alphard murmured, "…on his side."

Hermione found she could not form words; soon after he had spoken, Alphard finally passed out. She didn't want to wake him, and even though she knew he was likely to be passed out for quite some time, Hermione did not feel comfortable changing, or going to sleep beside him. Instead, she healed his cuts with some dittany and did her best with the bruises. Alphard mumbled in his sleep, tossing and turning. Asleep and relaxed, with his cuts healed, he looked less like Sirius now and more like the boisterous Slytherin Seeker that she had met him as. She took off his shoes and dress robes, and covered him with her blankets. The warmth he radiated was comforting, and seeing him there, yet another one of Tom Riddle's casualties on the road to immortality, made her resolve return to her. Immediately, she sent off an owl to Dumbledore, requesting that they begin Occlumency lessons at once. She also got out the map of Tom's Horcruxes and stared at it, getting lost in it, for an hour or so.

It was quite late when she heard a knock at her door; Hermione glanced at Alphard, who remained sound asleep, before opening the door just a sliver to find Aberforth standing there, looking grim.

"You've got the boy?" he asked gruffly. Hermione flushed with guilt.

"I'm sorry, I just couldn't let him get caught that drunk," she explained hastily. She opened the door further so Aberforth could see Alphard's sleeping form. He nodded and gestured for Hermione to close the door. In the pitch black darkness of the hall, he spoke to her.

"You did the right thing. That Riddle boy is looking for him now; he just came by. He's positive that the brat is here. Says he's worried about him and it's his job to get Alphard back to the castle."

_Yeah right, _Hermione thought immediately. She was about to speak when footsteps echoed up the stairwell; Aberforth and Hermione both froze before turning slowly. Tom was climbing the staircase slowly. There was just enough light from the bar cast upon the stairs to illuminate his features. He was ghostly pale; his traveling cloak trailed along the stairs around him. "I told you to wait in the bar," barked Aberforth sharply. Most people would have cowered at a tone such as that, but Tom looked mostly disinterested, until he spotted Hermione.

"The headmaster is concerned for Alphard Black's safety, Mr. Dumbledore," Tom said smoothly as he alighted upon the top step; now he stood down the corridor from them. Hermione's eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness. Tom was a graceful shadow as he approached them. "Some fellow prefects are waiting downstairs to escort Black back to the grounds. You may not keep Black here."

"You know he'll get in trouble for his condition," Aberforth said harshly. Tom was impassive.

"I can't say one way or the other what Headmaster Dippet's view of Black's behavior will be. But you must allow him to be returned to Hogwarts, where he belongs."

Aberforth grunted his assent after a tense moment, but as he stepped aside and went to return to the bar, Hermione did not miss the meaningful look he shot her. She nodded imperceptibly to him when Tom was distracted by calling up Marcus Avery and Romulus Lestrange. Before they arrived, Hermione went into her room and shook Alphard awake.

"I'll owl you in the morning and we'll talk," she whispered frantically to him, though by the disoriented look on his face, she doubted he understood. She helped him put his shoes and robes back on, and in silence he stumbled out the room to find Avery and Lestrange there.

"There he is," Avery said in a cruel, snide voice. Lestrange clapped Alphard on the back.

"You two go on ahead," Tom ordered them imperiously, his eyes fixed on Hermione. The way they nodded was more like a bow. The trio of Slytherins thundered down the stairs. Unwilling to speak to Tom, Hermione turned and went into her room. For posterity, she closed the door, knowing that even if she had locked it, he would have gotten in anyway. It hardly mattered whether there was something in his path. Sure enough, she heard the creaking of the door. She turned to face him just as he entered, a sly grin on his face. Tom shut the door gently before leaning against it. His dark eyes swept the room, and Hermione did not miss how his eyes lingered on the rumpled bedsheets before returning to her.

"What?" Hermione snapped rudely. She found herself crossing her arms around herself defensively. She knew Tom had noticed the gesture as well.

"You're not a very capable hostess, Hermione. You haven't even asked me for my cloak," Tom said, looking injured. Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"You're not a very capable guest, Tom. I never invited you into my room," she parried venomously. Tom's grin returned with a vengeance before he laughed at her, a high, cold laugh that sent shivers down her spine for the wrong reasons. He stepped away from the doorway and unfastened his traveling cloak; it nearly fell to the ground before he caught it and hung it on a hook on the wall. The movement was sensuous. She had expected his dress robes underneath, but as it turned out, he was wearing a Muggle black suit. For an unguarded moment, Hermione mused that had he been born in her time, he could have been a model or an actor. He made the suit look breathtakingly beautiful; in reality it was probably an inexpensive and plain suit. "No robes?" she asked, curiosity piqued.

"You're not the only one traveling over holiday. I've a few journeys that must be made, and robe garner unnecessary attention," he explained shortly. He took a few steps towards her, his delightful mouth curving into his usual half-smirk. His eyes had darkened with humor as he approached her. "Well? Aren't you going to ask where I'm going? I know the suspense is _killing_ you, darling."

At that moment, Hermione realized she had left the map out. Could she cast a nonverbal spell now, to wipe it? Or would she have to keep Tom away from the desk at all costs?

"I didn't want to give you the satisfaction," she said haughtily. She knew Tom must have seen the flash of hesitation in her eyes, for he cocked his head to the side, studying her.

"No, you never do," he said disappointedly, shaking his head. "But unfortunately, you have anyway. Look how willingly you kicked out Black so that I might take his place in your room."

"Take his place? If you would like to be passed out and drunk, then be my guest," Hermione said acidly. Tom chuckled softly.

"That's more like it. Now, I—regrettably—must decline your invitation to drink myself into a stupor, but I will take the invitation to be your guest." He stepped closer. "And now, your next job as a hostess is to take my jacket for me, as it's rather warm in here."

As usual, he was being completely infuriating, though Hermione preferred him when he was like this rather than how he had been in the snow. Part of her enjoyed their banter far more than was acceptable (because to enjoy it at all was entirely unacceptable, as this was Lord Voldemort). She put her hands on her hips.

"You already took off your cloak, Tom, so I think my job is done," she said innocently. Still, the part of her that could remain logical in his presence was screaming at her to find a way to wipe the map at all costs or get Tom out of her room.

"Yes, but I'm warm, so I'd like you to take off my jacket," he said in an equally innocent and sugary tone.

"I'm sorry, but I don't like to go around taking other people's clothes off, unlike some people," she said sweetly. She thought this might anger him enough to leave, but of course, it only seemed to amuse him.

"I was only doing you a favor, as you seemed quite warm out there," Tom explained, his eyes wide. She recognized it as a parody of the tone he reserved for professors, especially female ones. He was stepping closer to her, circling her. "And, since I'm such a good and helpful guest, I can see by the way your cheeks and collarbone are flushed that you're still too warm. Here, allow me—"

And before she could stop him, he had gripped the ties of her gown and pulled. In the softest whisper of silky fluttering, her gown slipped down her body and pooled around her feet. Hermione froze as she felt the rougher fabric of his suit as Tom walked to her front again. Instinctively Hermione clutched her arms around her. Luckily, Mrs. Potter had insisted on old-fashioned undergarments, and so she was not _entirely_ exposed as she might have been otherwise. Still, the fact that she was standing in an old-fashioned girdle, complete with thigh high stockings and a lacy slip of the finest silk, and still wearing her heels, was not a comforting one.

"Pervert," she said, narrowing her eyes at him. She bent down to retrieve her gown and clutched it to her body as she rose again. In that time, Tom had closed the distance between them and, as she rose up, slid his fingers along her curls.

"I'm only putting the ball in your court, so to speak," he explained softly. "Since I noticed you need some extra encouragement." In the flickering candlelight, the artistic beauty of his features was even more distracting than usual. Swallowing and clutching her gown closer to her body, Hermione tried a new tactic.

"Why did you make Alphard go talk to the giants?" she demanded. Tom seemed momentarily disarmed, and she took pleasure in it. However, her pleasure was dashed by the gleam in his eyes that followed.

"And so, it begins," he said cryptically. "Hermione, I must go to the southern part of the country tomorrow as part of my traveling. If you accompany me, I promise you'll find out all of the answers to your questions—and more."

It was the single most tempting offer that Hermione had ever received in her life, aside from her very first letter from Hogwarts.

"What do you have to do in southern England?" she asked first. Tom's lips curled.

"It's a secret. But you must wear your finest Muggle dress."

"What if I don't have a Muggle dress? And what do you mean by 'finest?'"

"I'm sure you can Transfigure something," he said with a blase wave of his hand. "So, will you join me tomorrow?"

Hermione thought of her own mission. But what if this helped her? She had no idea of where they were going, but what if this gave her unprecedented insight into the mind of Tom Riddle?

It was an offer she could not refuse. Hermione sighed in resignation.

"I will, as long as it is not going to threaten my life in any way," she conceded carefully. Tom grinned.

"You really think that anything involving a fancy Muggle dress could threaten your life?" he said teasingly. Hermione scowled at him as he again stepped closer. Invading her personal space entirely, he picked up the hem of her slip as though to examine the lace. "Then again, I might have to undress you again," he said thoughtfully, moving on to apparently study the silk. "And that action might have consequences." He looked up to meet her eyes, his hand on her hip, smoothing the silk there. "Did you know that people have died when they climaxed during a particularly incredible—well, _you know,_" he said conversationally, as though changing the subject. Hermione fought to keep her cool.

"If you're insinuating that I could die of pleasure from a romp with you, I have to say I highly doubt it," she said icily. Tom arched an eyebrow.

"Really? How insulting. I suppose I'll just have to prove it to you," he said lightly. His fingers hooked around the strap of her slip and tugged. Hermione clapped her hand to his and roughly pried his hand away from her slip.

"I'll go with you tomorrow," she said steadily. "But in that case, I ought to get some sleep. Where shall I meet you tomorrow?"

Tom stepped away; the way he did it was so calm as though their encounter had no effect on him. It stung, even though she knew that considering who he would turn out to be, she should not have been desiring any reaction from him.

"Ten in the morning. Behind Tingling Spines," he said shortly as he swept his cloak round his svelte shoulders. "Don't be late," he said, and opened the door, turning to go. Halfway out the door, he glanced over his shoulder at her. "It's a shame you're so bent on resisting me, because you look painfully enticing in those undergarments," he added mournfully, the wicked gleam ever present in his eyes.

When he had gone, Hermione sank to the floor as though she were melting. Little did she know that when Tom Riddle hit the frigid Christmas Day air, he was grateful for its iciness for a good reason, one that was very much not innocent. Meanwhile, in the castle, Alphard stared out into the swirling snow with a plan.


	33. 33: Blue

Bad Romance

Author's Note: The beginning of this chapter is a sort of answer to a request that one of you, ShimmeringWater, made several times. I normally don't take requests, but this actually fit in perfectly with my plotline, and was indeed quite fun to write. It's pretty minor, but still, hope you like it :P

Two notes:

First, thanks to 'person' for spotting the error in the last chapter. It should be _reparo,_ not _repair. _Stupid autocorrect.

Second, I've gotten a few questions about chapter thirty one's title. Pas De Deux is a part in a ballet and directly translates to dance for two. I used it because swan lake is a ballet that also has a pas de deux, and as you all know, they were dancing to the swan lake waltz. Swan lake has particular significance in this story, as i'm sure you all have noticed.

As usual, I'm super insecure about this. Now that the plot is actually picking up, i'm terrified that you guys won't like this story any more. It seemed like a lot of people really had problems with the last chapter. blah. It's sad how anxious I can get over fic. Oh well. PLEASE REVIEW!

Chapter Thirty Three: Blue

Coming up with a weather-appropriate and era-appropriate fancy Muggle outfit had not been easy. After some Transfiguring and some altering, Hermione had managed to Transfigure her garnet robes from Slughorn's party into a full-skirted garnet dress with the same neckline as the robes had had, with long sleeves and a hem at her calves. After attempting to recreate Mrs. Potter's magic on her hair, Hermione left the Hog's Head early that morning with her garnet dress, earrings, the heels she had worn with the robes, and her peacoat Transfigured to match the length of her dress. She had added her usual scarf and beret, and was proud of her work.

Her first stop, however, was not to meet Tom. Hermione had received an owl from Dumbledore suggesting they start Occlumency lessons in the next few days, and she had to respond to that. She also had to owl Alphard; she wanted to meet with him and talk. So wrapped up in her errands was she that she completely forgot it was Christmas until she stopped in the Three Broomsticks for a quick breakfast and ran into, of all people, Garret Potter.

She spotted him before he spotted her; he was seated at the bar, alone, digging into a plate of kippers enthusiastically and chatting with the barmaid, a witch who looked suspiciously like Madam Rosmerta. Today he was wearing heavy robes of a deep, dark red, and a lopsided wreath on his head as though someone had stashed it there haphazardly. Grinning to herself, Hermione snuck up behind Garret and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Hermione! Love of my life, where _have_ you been?" Garret nearly sang immediately, spraying bits of kipper everywhere. The barmaid giggled as Garret threw his arms around Hermione unceremoniously, nearly throttling her in the process. "My little brother says you were _quite_ the dish last night. How could I have missed it?" he mourned. Garret turned to the barmaid, gesturing to Hermione. "Is she not the most charming girl you've ever met? My little brother is courting her!"

"Geoffrey's got a girlfriend?" the barmaid asked in clear confusion. She raised her eyes doubtfully at Hermione, studying her for a moment. "I don't believe it. She's too cute for Geoffrey."

"Aha, you'd think that, but the word is, she's the most brilliant little witch in his year! Aren't you, Hermione?" At this, Garret began frog-marching Hermione across the bar. "Now, as it's Christmas, and as I'm hopelessly in love with you, and as we are now underneath the mistletoe…" Garret winked as they came to a halt in a doorframe and pointed upward. Indeed there was mistletoe there. Hermione's cheeks were aflame as Garret gleefully pecked her on each cheek. "Tell me, fair Hermione, what is it that you're so dressed up for?" he regarded her outfit, pointing to the heels. Hermione, still recovering from the kisses, stammered when she spoke.

"E-er, I'm not sure, actually…" at Garret's bemused expression, she shrugged, and followed him back to his place at the bar. The barmaid was shaking her head indulgently at Garret. "Well, another student invited me to something, and just told me to wear a Muggle dress, so…" Hermione trailed off and joined Garret, sitting on a barstool next to him. She ordered a light breakfast and noticed that Garret did not hide the way he was enjoying the view as the barmaid bustled off to the kitchens. "What are you doing in Hogsmeade, anyway?"

"Oh, just a few errands, you know how it is," Garret said dismissively. Somehow Hermione got the feeling that he was here on business, but she could not imagine what that might be. "Besides, Mum told me to check that Geoffrey hadn't gone into cardiac arrest after seeing you. Poor boy doesn't know what to do round pretty girls," he said with a sigh, shaking his head. Hermione snorted.

"Geoffrey was a perfectly wonderful date to the ball," she said, "and your mum worked magic on me."

"Mum's talented," he agreed. "Not that you _needed_ any help looking beautiful, of course!"

Hermione enjoyed eating breakfast with Garret, and when she noticed that the time to meet with Tom was drawing alarmingly close, she was reluctant to leave. With his ubiquitous compliments and ridiculous conversation, he was fun to be around, and Hermione found her cheeks hurting from laughing so much. When they parted ways, he kissed her under the mistletoe again, and sent Hermione off feeling quite cheerful.

Still, she could only ignore her true purpose for so long. Bracing herself, Hermione set out into the snow, though luckily the hearty breakfast had warmed her considerably. It was snowing more heavily, and even though she was wearing stockings and her dress was heavy, she still shivered a she made her way cross Hogsmeade, to McGonagall's father's shop. She turned down an alley just as she heard the bells chime ten o'clock, and spotted Tom at the other end, apparently unaware of her presence.

He had either bought or Transfigured a Muggle wool trench; it was charcoal and for a moment Hermione could not stop herself from relishing the sight. From this angle, watching him stare contemplatively into the snow, she felt she was looking at an ad for coats in a glossy magazine. Then he seemed to pick up on her presence, for he turned to her just as she reached the end of the alley.

"Perfect. I had faith that you'd find something," he greeted. He was wearing a black suit again, underneath. Snowflakes lingered in his hair and on his shoulder; his cheeks were unusually rosy from the cold. "Merry christmas," he added, his breath clouding in the air as Hermione came to a stop in front of him.

"Merry christmas. Where are we going, anyway?" she asked suspiciously. Tom held out his hand; he was wearing black knit gloves. Hermione placed her mittened hand into his.

"You'll find out soon enough," Tom said in a teasing tone, and with a crack, they Apparated.

When Hermione's feet hit the ground, she clutched Tom's hand tighter without intending to, as she was quite disoriented. Here was swirling snow, and the world was lost in white. It was hard to determine ground from sky. She stumbled a bit and Tom caught her round the waist before she could fall.

"Apparating in heels is less fun than you'd think," she explained dryly, righting herself and hiding the flush across her cheeks. Tom grinned.

"Catching you when you trip in heels is _more_ fun than you'd think," he parried. Then he turned and pointed at smudges in the world of fluffy white flakes. "Finally, I can tell you where we are going. We have a few stops to make. The first is not a _direct_ answer to your questions…" his lips curled in a cold, hate-filled smirk that Hermione got the impression he had not meant for her to see fully, "…but important nonetheless. We're going to a wedding."

This was, perhaps, the last thing that Hermione had been expecting.

"A wedding?" she asked rather stupidly, blinking at him. Tom took her hand.

"A wedding," he confirmed in a patronizing tone. "Come on, we'll be late." He began to lead her along what must have been a path in less inclement weather; Hermione thought her toes might have gone numb.

"A Muggle wedding," Hermione said, having to jog slightly in the snow as Tom pulled her along, "in southern England. In farm country. That we're attending. Whose wedding is it?"

They were approaching a white-washed little church that sat apart from the village on a hill overlooking it. Already Hermione could see people making their way into the little church. "Do I know them?"

"We both know her. I know her quite well; you have probably not interacted with her much if at all…but yes, you do know of her, at least."

Hermione despised not knowing the answer to something, but all the same, she knew she'd have to be patient. Reluctantly, she followed Tom in silence. Judging by the lack of people outside the church now, she figured they must have been the last ones to arrive. Tom turned to her, a sly, wicked grin on his lips. "The only problem is, we aren't invited, so don't make too much of a commotion."

"Tom!" Hermione said indignantly, but was cut off when Tom held a finger to her lips.

"What you're going to witness today is proof of a certain belief I have. You're a smart witch, and I know you hold logic in the highest esteem—higher than matters of the heart. Am I correct?" he had a wild, manic look about him that set Hermione on edge. Something told her this was not good, and she had a fair idea of where he was going with this.

"In some cases," she said warily. "Yes, but in others, the heart is the most important factor."

"Just wait and see," he said softly, and led her inside the pointed arch red doors.

Inside, the little church was packed on one side, and nearly empty on the other. People turned when they entered, apparently expecting the bride and her father, but Tom gracefully swept Hermione into the end of a pew on the packed side. People were still staring, but Hermione couldn't blame them, as Tom looked even more captivating than usual, with his cheeks rosy from the cold and his polished looking suit and coat. Tom seemed mostly unaware of their staring. "Now, watch," he whispered in Hermione's ear. Hermione peered at the entrance of the church as the organ music began playing the familiar notes of the wedding march. The doors opened, letting in a flurry of fluffy flakes before Aodhagan McGonagall stepped in, wearing a suit and looking notably trimmed, with Minerva on his arm. She was wearing a high-collared, long-sleeved wedding dress completely covered antique lace as well as a lacy veil; the effect was unfortunately a bit stuffy and clashed with her severe features. Hermione had to clap her hand over her mouth, and was grateful that Minerva looked too fixated on the altar to notice her and Tom. Hermione shot Tom a glower when she had recovered from her shock.

The groom was clearly a Muggle and most likely a farmer, judging by his roughened appearance, even on his wedding day. His eyes shone with love as he gazed at McGonagall, and it did not match the look of apprehension on Minerva's face. When she reached the altar and the minister began the ceremony, her posture was painfully tense and upright. Hermione, who had always felt a connection with McGonagall, felt her heart go out to the older woman. Aodhagan's face was grim; all eyes in the pews were dry.

"…Speak now, or forever hold your peace," she heard the minister saying. It was a tense moment, and then, quite suddenly, Minerva broke away from her groom, her face deathly pale.

"I can't do this," she said in a choked voice. The church was silent as it seemed Minerva and her groom were having a whispered argument. In tears, Minerva strode down the aisle, with her father hastily running after her. The crowd gasped and immediately people began chattering. In the commotion, Tom slipped his cool hand in Hermione's, and led her out one of the side doors. Hermione was reluctant to leave the warmth of the church, but happy to get away from such a painful scene.

"How did you know?" Hermione exploded as she, for the second time that morning, allowed Tom to drag her along in the snow. She was so upset that she hardly noticed the biting cold around her calves. Tom paused, turning back to her. In the snowy wind, his hair was coming out of its styled part and sleek waves freed themselves from the pomade.

"Muggles and wizards can never be together," Tom said as he continued to pull her.

"How can you _possibly_ conclude something as absurd as that from the wedding? That was a private moment!" Hermione shrieked indignantly. She had witnessed the pain on McGonagall's face and it was a side of McGonagall she had not expected. Respect for her former professor fueled her anger at Tom and abruptly, she pulled out of his grip, gasping for air.

"That wasn't a private moment, it was a _wedding,_ you silly girl. It was a whirlwind, sudden wedding, to boot. One that no one was pleased about, except for the groom," Tom said, his voice as cold as the weather. "Minerva McGonagall, to distract herself from her feelings for me, met a Muggle farmer and decided she was in love a few months ago. The Muggle proposed a few weeks ago, and they decided to get married. You don't know Minerva's history, so you don't understand why this is significant. But…" he leaned closer. "Minerva had misgivings about marrying him. She was scared that she would have to raise their children in secrecy. She was terrified of giving up her career as such a highly successful witch, because she had not yet informed her fiance of her…_unusual _talents. And at the last minute…she chose the wizarding world."

Hermione was so infuriated at Tom that she thought she might be sick.

"How did you know she'd change her mind?"

"Easy. I knew her very well, and your little boyfriend Black overheard her informing the barman of the Hog's Head about her upcoming nuptials." Tom looked pleased with himself; Hermione had to turn away. She stared back at the church, tears dripping down her cheeks. _Poor McGonagall…_she brought a mittened hand to her mouth to cover her gasps of tears. There was something so horribly sad about the look of indecisive anguish on Minerva's face.

Perhaps the real reason that it upset Hermione so much was that, standing there in the church, she had realized something quite painful. Had she and Ron married, what would their wedding look like? Would she have to choose between her two worlds? Even though she knew she would have chosen the wizarding world in a heartbeat, the likelihood of breaking contact with most of her friends and family from the Muggle world was not a happy one. She could not believe that this had not occurred to her beforehand, but now that it had, her spirits plummeted. Even if she did succeed in saving Harry and Ron, and even if she did manage to mend the damage that had been done to her feelings for Ron, what then?

"That was a very bad thing you did, Tom," Hermione said finally, when her tears had dried. Tom came to stand next to her, staring at the snow-covered church. Only its red doors were visible now in the snowstorm, like a bloody gash on smooth skin.

"And yet I believe you can now appreciate how difficult it would be for the wizarding and Muggle worlds to mix," Tom said. "Don't you agree? It seems impossible."

"This answers none of my questions," Hermione said evasively. "And, I'd like to return to Hogsmeade. I do not wish to be around you any longer."

She just barely caught the flash of surprise, and, perhaps injury on his face before Tom arranged his features into a mask of humorous disdain.

"Your bleeding heart conflicts with your brilliant mind, Hermione," he said coolly, staring down his nose at her. Hermione would have glared at him, but was too cold. She wrapped her arms around her trembling form and turned away again. "I do not see why you are so upset," he continued, stepping towards her again. "Obviously she did not love him enough anyway, if she was not willing to sacrifice her own ambitions for him."

"I do not see why you showed me this."

Tom let out an impatient sigh, and gripped her forearm suddenly.

"Come; it's too cold here and the wind is howling too loud for us to speak. We'll discuss this matter further elsewhere."

* * *

><p>Garret Potter and Albus Dumbledore did not miss the couple disappearing behind Aodhagan McGonagall's shop that morning. They also did not miss the fact that Alphard Black had crept out of the castle to Disapparate on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, or that he sent an owl before leaving. They were puzzled when they spoke with Aberforth Dumbledore later that day, and he told them about a strange map with several pins stuck at Albania. The flooding by Moaning Myrtle's bathroom did not escape their notice, either.<p>

How did all of these events fit together?

* * *

><p>When Hermione and Tom Apparated into Hogsmeade, Hermione stepped away from Tom immediately.<p>

"Well, I suppose I should thank you for that," Hermione said reluctantly, already beginning to walk away. Tom hastened to block her path.

"You're not curious about Black anymore?"

She _was_ curious about what had occurred with the giants and Alphard, but Hermione's strange grief was constricting. She had no desire to be around Tom at this time. Still, what if this was her only window to find out more? "I knew it," Tom said victoriously as her shoulders slumped slightly in defeat. "Come. I'll buy you a drink and we can discuss it further."

Feeling too weak and sad to argue, Hermione followed Tom to the Three Broomsticks, with a glimmer of hope that perhaps she might be saved by someone she knew who would be there. But when they entered, the cheery little pub held no familiar faces, save for the barmaid, and Hermione knew she would be of no use. Tom ordered them drinks, and Hermione slumped into a booth near the back.

"No need to look so miserable, Hermione. Most girls would die to be in your shoes," Tom said when he returned. He slid a frothing drink across the table to her and took his seat on the other side, shrugging off his wool trench. Hermione knew that people were staring at them again. _Probably thinking something along the lines of 'beauty and the beast?' _she thought with some humor. From the snow, her hair had returned to its usual bushiness, and she knew that the little makeup she had applied had been smudged by her crying. Meanwhile, even though Tom's hair was slightly mussed from the wind, he was stunning as usual. Hermione felt a stab of spite towards him.

"How humble of you. Really, it's your defining trait," she said sarcastically. She did not take a sip of her drink, for fear that he had put something in it, and instead slipped off her own coat, hat, and scarf. The garnet dress had the same rather grownup neckline as the robes had, and she felt Tom's eyes linger on her exposed shoulders for a beat too long. "Well? Explain."

"Well I can't, now that we're in such a public place," Tom said with great condescension. Hermione narrowed her eyes at him.

"Then what was the point of coming here?"

"Perhaps," Tom drawled, "I simply wanted to take you on a date."

"Ah. Of course. This is a date," said Hermione skeptically.

Tom's lips twisted into a smirk.

"What would _you_ call it, then?"

"Misery and suffering," Hermione said immediately. Still, making fun of him was taking her mind off of her grief, and she found herself cheering up slightly. Tom rested his chin on his folded hands and regarded her thoughtfully.

"I see. Then, define a date in your own terms, Hermione. I'm quite curious."

Hermione thought for a moment. Truth be told, she had never been on a real date before. She and Ron had only flirted while 'hanging out' and Krum had always simply been following her round the library. What would she consider a date? She recalled chick flicks and romance novels whilst staring at Tom in thought.

"I suppose dinner," she began thoughtfully, scratching her chin. "Dinner and perhaps a play, or something. And then a walk afterwards. And a kiss at the end of the night." Her cheeks flushed as Tom smirked at her.

"High expectations," he chided. Hermione scowled at him.

"Okay, then, Mr. Know-it-all, what would _you_ consider a date?"

"Dinner and sex until dawn," Tom replied unflinchingly. Hermione swallowed nervously, her fingers curling into a fist. It was mostly the scorching look he had given her when he had spoken. Images from the prior evening flew through her mind, and she cursed her overactive imagination.

"Talk about high expectations…especially of yourself," she said with a smirk. Tom's eyes darkened as his wicked grin widened.

For a moment, they stared at each other, the obvious next question hanging in the air between them. Desperate to keep her cool, Hermione thought of Alphard, and her mind immediately fixated on what he had said of Tom: _He wants you…on his side._ "How do I know that this 'date'—if that's what we're calling it—isn't just a ploy for you to get something from me?" she asked, trying to keep the suspicion out of her voice. She knew Tom was skilled at charming whoever he needed; the odds were that he was aware of Hermione's deep-down desire to be charmed and wined and dined. Her flirtations with Ron had been lovely, and even the strange but immature romance with Alphard had been satisfying. Still, she knew she would always wish for a more charming, smooth, debonair type of man.

"Hermione, when a man asks a woman on a date, it's _always_ a ploy to get something from her," Tom said softly. "Never let yourself think otherwise, no matter how sweet or innocent the man seems."

Hermione thought of Ron again. Sweet, loving, clumsy Ron.

After that, she decided to turn the tables on him, though Tom was nothing if not prepared. They spent a few more hours at the Three Broomsticks, with Hermione prying Tom for information about Alphard's journey to the mountains. She ended up buying herself a drink, and then another, and then another, so that by the late afternoon, the snowy sky was tinged pink and Hermione was feeling the Christmas cheer. She was still sober enough to walk steadily, but the warmth from the butterbeer had left her grief from that morning mostly lain by the wayside, and she even allowed Tom to rest his hand on the small of her back as he led her out of the pub.

"Mistletoe! Garret kissed me under that this morning," Hermione said, pointing to the cluster of green hung over the doorway. Tom smirked.

"Garret Potter? He's in town?"

"He was this morning," Hermione said, pushing her way out of the pub and into the snow. Tom had snatched the mistletoe, and when he followed her to her room at the Hog's Head, as Hermione unlocked her door, he hung it magically in the doorframe. "You may leave now," she said imperiously, leaning against the doorframe. Her eyes traveled up to the mistletoe. "High expectations, as usual," she added loftily when she saw it. Tom leaned in, pressing her against the doorframe.

"I gave you a Halloween kiss, and I thought we ought to continue the tradition of holiday kisses," he explained seriously, his lips centimeters from hers. Hermione scoffed, looking away, but he gripped her chin with his hand.

"Why should we? You were very bad today, bring me to Minerva's wedding," she said coolly, trying to free herself from his grip. His fingers tightened on her chin.

"I have a theory that you find it interesting that I'm bad," he said. The heat coming from his body was unmistakable; Hermione was paralyzed by her own lust. She knew his intent was to charm her into joining him, and she was still angry at what she had seen of McGonagall's wedding. And yet…he wasn't entirely wrong: she did find him fascinating. He was the most captivating person she had ever met. When she went to push him away, her hands turned into fists, clutching at the fabric of his white shirt, and directly beneath the mistletoe, in spite of knowing how absolutely and complete _wrong_ she was being, Hermione allowed Tom to lean down and press his lips to hers in the single most searing kiss she had ever experienced. Heat flared within her; his tongue slipped between her lips and she reveled in the sensation as his other hand wound itself into her hair. All was silent as he tilted his head, moving his lips against hers. Her legs might buckle; her heart was threatening to break out of her rib cage. The heat was deliciously unbearable, his scent was like oxygen. The tension in his hold on her was almost excruciating; he needed this as much as she did. Though they did not grab or grope, Hermione could not help but recall their recent encounters, and combined, her desire for him was staggeringly powerful. But she had allowed herself this much, and it was as though she were peering down into a devastatingly tempting abyss. She could not jump, however much she ached to do so. So she did the only thing she could do. She pulled away, breaking the kiss first.

"Merry christmas, Tom," she said simply, and then shut the door in his face.


	34. 34: Lost In You

Bad Romance

Author's Note: As always, you guys make my day with your INCREDIBLE reviews. Some of the reviews from last chapter were particularly sweet (no need to go into detail, as you all know who you are), and I really appreciated it. It was totally a boost of confidence that I needed. That combined with your sweet reviews and PMs about my dental surgery left me feeling pretty awesome, and I actually was grinning like an idiot for the last few days. This chapter is SO LONG to make up for the fact that I took days to post.

Last chapter, I fulfilled part of a minor request from ShimmeringWater. This chapter, I worked in a request of too addicted to fiction's. It fit in with the plot, and when she suggested it, I was like OMG THAT WORKS SO PERFECTLY. So, here you go. I have the feeling everyone else will appreciate it as well.

One of you, BananaDrama, mentioned that you were interested in advice on how to consistently update. Your review was not signed, so I could not PM you a response. Funny thing is, I'm not the best person to ask on this, and here's why: to be honest, as I am an undergrad in neuroscience, my curriculum is _very dry_. For someone like me who is very creative and really enjoys art and writing, such a curriculum is draining. Therefore, writing is sort of necessary for me to not lose my mind completely. I make time for it in the same way that I make time for running or socializing or reading, and sometimes that means that other things get nixed. I also steal time throughout my day to add to chapters: ie while I'm waiting for a class to begin, or when I'm taking a break from studying.

Note to Brin Hearts Harry (and to everyone, really): I looked up McGonagall's story after you left your review, actually. It wasn't surprising—I always imagined McGonagall as having had several flames. Can't you picture her wandering the moors in some austere dress (maybe with some tartan, lol) in manner of Jane Eyre or Wuthering Heights? Lol.

Also, to person: criticism is ALWAYS welcome. I am never offended unless it is mean (e.g. "you're a terrible person, go kill yourself!") and even then I usually am amused by flames. In the unlikely event that you do manage to offend me, I usually forget about it in a manner of minutes :) Still, I really welcome criticism.

Finally, cookies for Izzy who has been sick. You never leave a signed review, so I can't PM you, but I appreciate the reviews you always leave, and hopefully you're feeling better! Also, I heart your name. This is awkward, but my dog—a golden retriever— is named Izzy. Also when I was little I had a stuffed animal giraffe named izzy that would squeak when you shook it. It was pale yellow and spotted and it's basically the cutest thing ever. So when I see your reviews I get happy because your name reminds me of two very cute things :)

Chapter Thirty-Four: Lost in You

Hermione exhaled hotly, leaning her back against the door. Instincts told her that Tom was still on the other side, and when she heard a bump, she knew he had pounded his hand against the door.

"Dammit, Hermione," she heard him sigh. "You're so…"

"Infuriating? Insolent?" Hermione suppled sardonically. She heard him laugh softly; such a beckoning sound to her.

"Why do you always run away?"

Hermione did not have an answer for that. She slumped down to the floor and buried her face in her hands. "I only have so much patience," he warned. Then she heard the clicking of his dress shoes as he walked down the hall, away, and then down the stairs.

Hermione locked the door (though it occurred to her that locks did nothing to prevent people who wanted to get in, Wizard or not) and fell onto her bed heavily, staring contemplatively out at the snow in her mostly dark room. Post-exhilaration, butterbeer, and exhaustion made a potent combination, for her thoughts drifted, floated, and circled through her mind just like the fluffy snow itself. Minerva's wedding, the look on her face as she turned away from her almost-husband, the way the red doors of the church had looked so violent in a world of white…

And then she was dreaming of walking down the aisle as well. She was wearing Minerva's high-necked dress, and she felt like it was choking her. On her arm, walking her along the aisle, was Ron, not her father. Her family was nowhere to be found. As she walked, her footfalls matching that of the organ's wedding march, people in the pews shifted in their seats to give her looks of deepest hatred. Women sneered at her through the netting of their fascinators, men's lips curled. Feeling unsettled, Hermione tried to catch Ron's attention. What was going on?

The altar came into view, and Hermione recognized the gleaming hair, straight posture, and angular shoulders instantly. Her heart jumped into her throat as she nearly reached the altar and Tom Riddle turned to look at her, a sultry smirk on his face and a knowing glimmer in his dark eyes.

When she woke up, drenched in cold sweat and shaking, she realized she had been screaming.

* * *

><p>After such a disturbing nightmare, Hermione could only put forth effort on her mission. She pinned the photograph of Harry and Ron to the wall by her desk, but a strange thing was occurring: they were feeling more and more like strangers that she had perhaps met once or twice. It felt more like she had pinned a magazine clipping to her wall. This sent Hermione into a depression. Even when she met with Dumbledore for her first Occlumency lesson, he seemed to be hinting that something seemed wrong and dropping broad hints that, if necessary, she could confide in him. When Hermione tried to talk about it, she found her throat constricted, as though she were wearing Minerva's wedding dress again.<p>

But, strangely, time _was _indeed still passing. Hermione wore her newly Transfigured garnet dress and purchased some more weather-appropriate shoes to pair with the dress, and after donning her lengthened coat and usual beret and scarf, decided to Apparate to Little Hangleton a few days after Christmas, on new year's eve.

Hermione had never been truly depressed, but now she could certainly appreciate how different the world looked to her. When, in a flutter of whirling snow, she arrived at Little Hangleton, even though it was one of the first sunny days of the Christmas break, the world looked dull and grey. Brushing aside her own mood, Hermione squinted into the searing daylight, searching. In the distance sat a crooked little village with shops and a town square that had Muggles milling about, doing their shopping. Above the village on a high hill overlooking the town was a mansion with tall, jagged trees along the front, their outlines stark and unforgiving in the snow. _That's the Riddle mansion…_ with a distinct sense of foreboding, Hermione crunched through the snow towards town. She knew that somewhere around the edges of town ought to be the Gaunt house, but she was not quite ready to see that. She saw the little church with the graveyard in which Harry had seen Cedric die, and chills ran over her skin.

With not much to see in town, Hermione hid behind a tree and slipped on the Invisibility Cloak. As the Riddle murders were so fresh in the townspeople's minds, Hermione thought it best to avoid being seen approaching the mansion. Covering her tracks behind her, Hermione made her way up the hill. She was out of breath by the time she reached those stark trees. Standing at the entrance to the front gardens, an interruption in the line of trees, she stared up at the house.

The house looked abandoned already, even though it looked like the gardener was putting up his best fight against it. Knowing Tom's style, Hermione walked round the gardens in the front, examining the plants. There was definitely a curse or two placed on them…even as she touched the ivy, it seemed to creep further. Shuddering, Hermione walked into the back gardens. The gate was unlocked, so it was easy to push past and make her way inside.

Before Tom Riddle Jr. had arrived, the gardens must certainly have been something. Long rows of wild, furious rosebushes grew towards the sky, lining a very long rectangular pond. Muttering _alohamora,_ the back door into the kitchens released its lock with a click, and Hermione crept inside the house with some trepidation.

For a while, she simply strolled along the corridors, poking her head inside the rooms. Each room was grander than the next, with elaborate tapestries, gilding dripping from every surface, and even a dust-covered grand piano that must have been splendid in its day. When she got to the parlor where Tom Riddle Sr.'s body had been found, Hermione's skin prickled with goosebumps. She knew it wasn't just her imagination: the powerful signature of Tom's magic lingered in the very air of the mansion, floating with the dust particles that Hermione could see in the rays of light from the windows. Hermione came across very old black-and-white photographs of Tom Riddle Sr. and his family, and stood by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows in a patch of gray light to study the photo. Tom Riddle Sr. was holding his arm slung around a very pretty girl, the beginning of a very cocky grin curling his lips. It looked like they were in equestrian gear; they must have been out riding. He looked nearly exactly like his son, except he was missing the gleam of brilliance always present in Tom's eyes. He did not strike Hermione as being a fraction as charismatic as his son. He probably had to rely on his good looks, whereas his son had his infamous charisma and wit that so beckoned people to him.

How must it have felt for Tom Riddle Sr, to find his exact lookalike pushing aside the parlor doors? To see the very same long fingers curling around the edge of the door, to see himself—only so much younger—and so much paler but darker as well…? Hermione's stomach clenched. Poor Tom Riddle Sr. had just been a silly rich boy who had fallen prey to the hands of two very powerful people: Merope Gaunt, despite displaying Squib tendencies, must have been quite the clever girl, to put together that strong of a love potion. As for the young Lord Voldemort…

Hermione set the picture aside, noticing gravity perhaps more than she ever had. It felt like she was dragging along a library behind her as she left the house through the little kitchen. In the time that she had been inside the house, the ivy had grown even thicker over the door and she had to use her wand to cut through it. Hermione slipped out the gate, noticing for the first time that smoke was puffing out of the gardener's chimney. _They say he was the one who found them…_ Without hesitating, Hermione stuffed the Cloak into her bag and knocked on the door of the gardener's cottage. There was a dull thudding sound, and then the little wooden door opened a sliver, revealing a scarred but young face.

"H-hello," Hermione greeted awkwardly as he regarded her curiously. Deciding to use her Muggle name for safety, Hermione spoke, "I-I'm Hermione Granger, and I was just, er,"

"Get on with it," the gardener said abruptly, scowling. Hermione let out a shaky breath that she had not realized she had been holding.

"I wanted to hear your story about the murder of the Riddle family," she finished hastily. She feared that the gardener might slam the door in her face, but instead he stared at her for a moment before opening the door wider. He couldn't have been older than twenty five, with pale blue eyes and brown hair combed very severely, as was the fashion, and a round face. Had it not been for the look in his eyes and the scars, he might have been someone who would be considered babyfaced.

"….You with the paper?" he asked warily. Hermione shook her head. Deciding to appeal to him, Hermione made up a story. She did not dwell on how her tactics would've made Tom proud.

"I just had heard about the whole story, and thought you must be very frustrated, with no one believing the truth, and… well, I thought perhaps if I could hear you out…" she trailed off as the gardener turned but did not close the door.

"Come in," he said a bit gruffly. Agitated but pleased, Hermione entered the warm cottage. "Name's Frank Bryce. You can sit there," he said with a rough gesture to a little square table in front of the fireplace. It was a small, extremely tidy little cottage. A kettle was heating by the fire and it looked like he had been in the middle of preparing his lunch. Hermione cautiously sat in one of the caned wooden chairs, watching as Frank got her some tea. He had a wooden leg, and his face and arms were scarred. _World war two victim, I suppose,_ Hermione thought sadly as she watched him hobble about. He was clearly still getting used to his artificial leg, but Hermione surmised he must have been quite athletic. He likely had acquired the fake leg recently; she knew it would have taken her more than a few years to become very agile with a wooden leg.

"So," she began awkwardly as he clunked a chipped teacup on the table in front of her. "Why don't you tell me your version of the whole story? What—er—what was your relationship like with the Riddles?"

"They were good employers, I reckon. The son was a bit of a prat. His father got me the job, which I thought was a right nice thing to do, considering my leg," Frank explained, settling into a chair across from her. Judging by his tone, Hermione guessed he had told this story several times. But she didn't want the story that the cops knew. She'd already seen it in a newspaper clipping. She wanted to hear the _real_ story… How could she get _that_ story from Frank Bryce?

"The son? You mean Tom Riddle?" she asked politely.

"Who else? He only had one son," Frank said a bit irritably. "Rich patsy boy. Liked to go riding through town to make all the girls swoon, even though he was already married."

"He was handsome?"

"Apparently," said Frank with a bemused shrug.

"D-did any girls from town ever, you know, _go_ for him?"

Frank chuckled a bit and averted his eyes to the window.

"They say they did, but…" Frank paused to turn back to Hermione. "Well, never mind." Hermione did not miss the way his eyes swept back out the window…in the direction of the Gaunt house. "I only got the job a few years back, after the war," Frank continued after taking a swig of his tea.

"Tell me about the day you…well, the day you found them," Hermione encouraged, despite the fact that she desperately wished to press for more information on the rumors surrounding Tom Riddle Sr.'s bewitchment. Frank's tone when he spoke regained that heavily practised, bored tone that he had adopted before.

"Went inside, as I had seen an odd thing." For a moment, he looked uncomfortable. "But, eh, it's nothing. At any rate, I—"

"What did you see?" Though Hermione already knew the answer, she wanted to hear it from him. Her stomach began to churn. Frank pressed his lips together as though debating whether to speak. "It's okay, I won't tell anyone," she added gently. He sighed, scratching the back of his neck.

"A—a flash of light," he said with some uncertainty. Hermione noted the way he gripped his cup harder, how his unharmed leg bounced with anxiety. "Green light," he clarified, averting his eyes agin. "And…well, this is strange, but… a kid. Couldn't've been older than me at the time. Wearing a long black cloak. And, he looked _exactly_ like Mr. Riddle," Frank explained, meeting Hermione's eyes for one wary instant before looking away again. "Must've been seeing things, I guess. The police pinned it on—well, they said—sometimes veterans have hallucinations." There was anger laced in his tone. His shoulders seemed to tighten. _He must really resent that assessment, _Hermione thought sympathetically. She could remember how angry and defensive Harry had been after Cedric's death, how no one had believed him, and how much he had resented people calling him crazy. He was Harry, so he would have died before letting her know, but Hermione got the feeling it had bothered him more than he let on.

"I really don't think that that's the sort of hallucinations that war veterans have," Hermione said quietly. Frank's gaze shot to her in surprise. "I doubt you were just seeing things," she added. Frank looked even more on edge. _Probably thinks I'm just saying that,_ she realized. How hard must it be for Frank Bryce, to have to endure all of this attention whilst living on his own? He had already suffered through a war—he probably just wanted peace and quiet for the rest of his life. "I mean that. I don't know where those things came from, but I believe you."

"It was strange," Frank said in a rush, as though he were highly relieved, "How this boy looked so much like Mr. Riddle. But like…" he paused, chewing on his lips. "…like an _evil _Mr. Riddle," he explained uncomfortably. Hermione nodded and abruptly remembered her tea. She took a sip of it to be polite as she waited for Frank to continue. "I saw him on the edge of the grounds, so I didn't think much of it. At first I thought it actually _was _Mr. Riddle. But I've never seen him wear a cloak like that, and the next thing I knew, there was that green flash." He shook his head. "Maybe it was Mr. Riddle, and the fact that he looked so young was just a trick of the light. Anyway, next thing I knew, I went in to check on them, after I saw the flash of light, and then…" he swallowed, his adam's apple moving with the motion.

"Then?" Hermione prompted.

"It was like they'd been scared to death."

Unfortunately, beyond that, Frank either had no details or was unwilling to give them. After a while, Hermione stood up and thanked Frank for the tea. As she was turning to leave, he spoke. "It's a bit funny," he began, watching Hermioen closely. "Everyone else thought that the green flash I saw was absurd. But you, and one other bloke, almost seem like you _expected_ it."

"One other bloke?" Hermione asked in surprise. "R-really?"

"Yeah," Frank said thoughtfully. "Forget his name. An unusual name. Kind of tall fellow, with black hair. Anyway… thanks for listening."

"No problem," Hermione said, and stepped out into the light again.

She walked in a daze towards the Gaunt house. So another wizard had been to see Frank Bryce. ….Which meant that another wizard either suspected Riddle, or recognized the flash of green light for what it was: the Killing Curse. But _who_? Hermione would never know, unless she could read Frank's mind.

And then she stopped in the snow, mid-stride, her jaw hanging open. Because she _could_ read Frank Bryce's mind, if she learned Legilimency as well as Occlumency. It wasn't ethical, but…

Hermione mentally kicked herself for even seriously considering it. Perhaps there was more Slytherin in her than she knew if she could possibly see Legilimency on a defenseless Muggle as a course of action. Disgusted, she continued onto the Gaunt house, which was in irreversible disrepair and mostly caving in. Somewhere in these ruins was the Resurrection Stone. Thinking of Harry and Ron, Hermione turned away, tears streaming down her cheeks. Because of the curse on Dumbledore's hand, Hermione could not destroy the stone just yet, though she was seriously considering doing it that very moment.

By now it was late afternoon, and it was with a heavy heart that Hermione Apparated back to Hogsmeade. On her way to the Hog's Head, she glanced up at the castle out of habit and spotted figures on broomsticks in the sky. Even from afar, Hermione recognized Geoffrey and Rupert….and Garret with them, as well! Hermione veered off the road and began trotting up the path to Hogwarts, her spirits livened at seeing her friends. When she got closer, she saw Amelia there as well. Amelia and Garret were far more skilled flyers than Geoffrey or Rupert; they each soared through the air the way Hermione had always seen Harry do so effortlessly, like he _belonged_ there. For a moment, as Garret swept downward to catch the ball, he looked so strikingly like Harry that Hermione felt she'd been slapped.

"It's Hermione!" Rupert shouted, and dropped lower to greet Hermione properly. "Merry belated Christmas!" he said cheerily as he jumped off his broom and hugged Hermione tightly.

"Thank goodness, a girl! I love girls," Garret cried happily, as he and Amelia gracefully swept downward to Hermione, with Geoffrey behind them. Geoffrey and Rupert shared a look of deep annoyance as Amelia giggled; apparently the boys had had it with Garret's flirtatiousness. "And not just _any _girl, either!" Garret added, giving Hermione his customary kisses on each cheek. "Look at you, rosy from the cold—"

"Oh, shut the bloody hell up," Geoffrey snapped. Amelia and Hermione hugged, and reluctantly, Geoffrey gave Hermione a strained one-armed hug that had Garret tsking and rolling his eyes exaggeratedly.

"What are you doing at Hogwarts, Garret?" Hermione asked as she followed the group back onto the Quidditch pitch.

"Just hanging round for fun," he replied.

"He's been meeting with Professor Dumbledore and won't tell us why!" Geoffrey exploded. Garret gave his little brother a condescending pat on the head.

"Now now, Geoff dear boy. Why don't you teach your lovely friend here how to ride a broomstick, eh?" he suggested casually, tossing Geoffrey the broom he had been riding. "I must be off anyway, but it was lovely to see you, my dear—"

"Stoppit," Geoffrey growled.

"I know, you don't like other men hitting on your women, Geoffrey, but since you chose such a delightful young—"

Garret was shut up when Geoffrey swung at him with his broom, and laughing and waving at them, Garret jogged up toward the castle as Geoffrey called after him, reminding him that Hermione was _not_ his girlfriend.

"I actually can't fly a broom," Hermione confessed sheepishly after Garret had disappeared. Rupert and Amelia were circling each other in the air, giggling together. Geoffrey scoffed.

"What a relief—Hermione the Genius finally has found something she can't do," he said wryly before handing her the broom. "Come on, then, you ought to learn. Here, take this broom. You know how to mount it?"

The afternoon passed by quickly; Hermione was the least coordinated of all of them and dropped the ball every time she was supposed to catch it. Memories of Muggle school and being unable to do any sports assaulted her….until she realized that no one actually cared if she could catch the ball or not. Rupert and Amelia just told her she was probably nervous about being up on a broom, and even though Geoffrey did make fun of her, it was so gentle and good-natured that Hermione laughed with him. By the time the sun had set, Hermione was feeling happier than she had all of break. Amelia called her down and the girls sat together on a bench as Geoffrey and Rupert took turns hurling the ball at each other.

"So," Amelia began, her eyes dancing with excitement. "Tom Riddle followed you _out of the ball_," she continued in a barely-contained whisper. Hermione rolled her eyes. "What happened?"

"Nothing," Hermione said firmly, though the way he had undressed her made her forget how icy the air was.

"You're lying! Look how red you are!" Amelia squealed, bouncing up and down. "I have to admit, I'm jealous," she confessed. "He looked completely dashing, as usual, of course."

"Well…" Hermione drew in a breath. "He…perhaps…thought it amusing that my dress had ties…and when I was walking, he caught up with me, and pulled on the ties to be funny, I suppose," Hermione said, relieved to have finally told someone about it. Amelia let out another squeal and clapped her hands over her mouth.

"He undressed you?" she cried, which caught the boys' attention, and they both swooped down to the ground immediately.

"Who undressed you?" Rupert asked as they marched over to the girls. Hermione glowered at Amelia, who merely shrugged apologetically.

"No one," Hermione said flatly to the boys. Rupert looked dubious, and Geoffrey had turned his typical shade of puce when he was angry.

"Hermione, you can't just let a boy take your innocence like that," he said immediately, shaking his head. Amelia scoffed.

"I'd be okay with Tom Riddle taking _my _innocence," she said. Rupert's gaze snapped to her in shock and horror as Geoffrey stared at Hermione.

"You and Riddle had _sex_?" he asked, blinking stupidly. Hermione slapped her palm to her forehead.

"_No._ Look, when I left the ball, he followed, and as my dress tied in the back, I suppose he thought it would be funny to pull on it," she said prissily. Geoffrey and Rupert seemed to share a look that Hermione could not interpret. "What?" she demanded. Geoffrey sighed.

"Hermione, first you don't know about blue-balling, and now you really think he'd find it _funny_ to undress a beautiful girl in a tight dress?" Rupert asked incredulously. Now it was Amelia's turn to give Rupert a sharp look as Geoffrey shook his head.

"Definitely an innocent," he agreed. "It's alright though; I can't really picture you as a _bad_ girl, to be honest." He squinted as he studied her. "Though it'd be interesting…"

"Oh, just shut up!" Hermione snapped, feeling her cheeks warm.

"Speak of the devil," Amelia said with another giggle, and nudged Hermione before nodding to the other end of the pitch. The Slytherins—including Alphard and Tom—had also decided to play Quidditch, and were approaching the field. Apparently they had not noticed them yet. Alphard hopped onto his broom with athletic ease and sailed up towards the heavens, looking perfectly elated to be on a broomstick. Hermione felt herself smiling…and then Tom joined him, equally as graceful. "Is there anything he's not good at?" Amelia sighed. Geoffrey and Rupert both muttered something rather unrepeatable about the violence they each wanted to inflict on both Slytherin boys as Hermione stared at Tom. His head thrown back, laughing at something Alphard had said, he looked entirely incapable of murdering his own father.

And then it hit her: the difference she could not pin down between him and his father before. As Tom turned, having noticed the Gryffindors and Hufflepuff, Hermione saw his eyes, like twin coals. His father's eyes had been blue, light, plain blue. His father had been a beautiful but simple creature: like a unicorn, running freely and ignorantly about his own life. Tom was a creature of both beauty and great complexity, and in his eyes, that dark brilliance that was so beckoning could be found. Tom Riddle Sr. looked like his life was probably consumed by thoughts of how to make girls look at him. He was a perfect rich bachelor, so very arrogant and boyish. Tom looked like his own brilliance could not be contained within him.

"He's staring at you," Amelia whispered. Hermione heard Geoffrey scoff.

"Of course. And he's staring at her."

Hermione decided to join them for an evening at the Great Hall; being with her friends was holding her depression and gloom at bay and she was not ready to return to the hollow pain of her own inescapable grief. The Great Hall was filled with students, due to the Yule Ball. With her friends around her, Hermione could forget about Tom Riddle for a bit. Amelia had to sit with her Hufflepuff friends, but Geoffrey was unusually lively and was relating to them a tale of his childhood. Apparently, Garret had used his toy broomstick to get ahold of the cookie jar. Geoffrey, at the end of his infancy, had evidently been so jealous of Garret that he had performed accidental magic and set the cookies on fire. Hermione was beaming with joy. Headmaster Dippet made an announcement about it being New Years' Eve, and gave a rather boring speech about resolutions. Hermione decided to resolve to work harder on her mission.

After dinner, Hermione joined Geoffrey and Rupert and Amelia in the Gryffindor common room for New Year's, and had quite a pleasant time. She consumed far more butterbeer than she had intended, and for the second time over holiday, she had become tipsy. Feeling worried about getting more inebriated, Hermione left an hour before midnight, glad that she had her wand with her for the journey back to the Hog's Head. She was stumbling slightly, but Geoffrey had forced pumpkin pasties on her to help her sober up, and she polished them off before she had even made her way out of the castle. She should have predicted that she would run into Tom, but of course, she was too filled with cheer from the party to have thought it through. Out in the snow, he and the Slytherins were coming back inside, though from what, Hermione did not know.

"Happy new year…almost," Hermione greeted them. Now she knew the meaning of 'liquid courage,' for normally she would have had some trepidation about approaching Tom and his followers. Alphard, notably, was not among them.

"Happy new year almost to you too, Macmillan," Tom said with great amusement. "Good to know you were enjoying the festivities," he added as Hermione stumbled slightly.

"Good to know you're too much of a prude to enjoy them, Riddle," Hermione parried. Tom's friends seemed to not know whether to laugh or hide. Luckily, Tom burst into laughter.

"You're calling me a prude? Oh dear. I think I ought to escort you back to your room, lest we find a frozen Hermione in the snow tomorrow." He turned back to his followers. Hermione found herself picturing falling over drunkenly, and for some reason found it hilarious. As Tom's knights left them alone, Hermione had a difficult time ceasing her giggling. Finally, they were completely alone. "And your friends let you walk alone? Shame on them," Tom said. "Come on, take my arm to steady yourself. Let's get you back to the Hog's Head."

"Or, we could go sledding," Hermione suggested wistfully. In spite of herself, she accepted his arm. She appreciated having something stable to hold onto, as the world was still a bit spinny. The heat from his body was pleasing, as well. "Have you ever been sledding? It's one of my very favorite things," she added, tugging on his arm. Tom was laughing at her again.

"Actually, I don't believe I have," he admitted. Hermione let go of his arm and stumbled down the hill, eventually falling on her bum and sliding partially down the hill.

"See? Fun!" Hermione called. "Come on, Tom," she cajoled. Drunk or not, she would rather die than miss a chance to see Lord Voldemort sledding. And that was perhaps the most hilarious image she had ever had. Tom regarded her with a somewhat wary look from atop the hill as Hermione laughed so hard her sides ached. "Come on! Try it!"

"Show me how again," Tom said, surveying the hill. Still giggling, Hermione made her way up the hill to Tom again. Her skirt was soaked from the snow, and her legs and hands might be going numb, but she didn't care.

"Look!" and she moved to sit down again, but at the last minute, Tom swiftly grabbed her and they tumbled down the hill together. The snow was icy on Hermione's cheeks, but when they came to a rest at the bottom of the hill, she hardly noticed the cold at all. She had landed on top of Tom, their faces inches apart.

"You're right, sledding is fun," he teased, his hands on her upper arms. Hermione found herself laughing again, and then Tom was laughing again too. "Howabout I show you one of _my_ favorite activities?" he suggested slyly. Hermione could not bring herself to be fearful, and she matched his wicked grin with one of her own.

"Let me guess: knitting?" she asked lightly, relishing the sound of his baritone laugh. How strange that it would soon become such a high, cold, flat sound. For now it was rich and sensuous.

"I've never heard it called that," he admitted. "Hermione, I do enjoy it when you're tipsy. It's quite entertaining."

"Have you ever been tipsy?" Voldemort getting tipsy was another image that sent Hermione into another fit of giggles, and she had buried her face in his cloak to try and suppress her giggles.

"No, I have not," he said, "But it'd be well worth it, to get you drunk again. I wonder how much butterbeer it would take before you'd start stripping?"

"Look, I'll strip now," Hermione joked, slipping off her mitten and wiggling her mostly numb fingers in his face. Tom grabbed her hand.

"You laugh, but hands can be quite provocative. Look," he said, and, their gazes locked, he took her fingertips and pressed them to his lips. Warmth shot down Hermione's spine, but her reflexes were dulled. When she tried to retract her hand, Tom held on tightly, running his lips along her fingers and then kissing the inside of her wrist. Hermione let out a shuddering breath; it was the same way he had kissed her wrist the day before holiday had begun. Suddenly she felt much dizzier and tipsier than she had before. He slid up the sleeve of her coat, running his lips along the inside of her forearm. The icy air in contrast to the heat from his mouth was powerful. When he pulled away, his eyes and grin were devilish. Hermione felt a distinct sense of loss, and she knew it was showing on her face. "See? Fun!" he mimicked. "Come on, try it."

Hermione shifted her weight on him; it was curious to see the expression that flashed on his face briefly. For a split second, desire had clouded over his features entirely. Her liquid courage kicking in again, Hermione took his hand and raised it to her lips; the look of surprise on his features was immensely satisfying. She had always wanted to catch him off guard. Never breaking eye-contact, she pressed her lips against his palm in an open-mouthed kiss. Underneath her other hand, she could feel his chest rise and fall a bit faster, and she could see the way his lips parted slightly. Wanting to see that look again, she kissed his wrist, savoring the feel of his pulse against her lips. She pulled away slowly, the heat between them making her feel light-headed.

"I rather prefer sledding," she said with a grin. Tom scoffed and raised his hand to her neck, finding her own pulse.

"I think you prefer lying above all," he murmured. "Do you know it's my birthday?" he asked casually, though his fingers were slipping beneath her scarf, tracing along her neck. "And you haven't given me a present yet."

"I assume you have something in mind," she said shrewdly, though it was interrupted by a gasp of surprise as his fingertips traced her collarbone.

"I have a lot of things in mind…but a real kiss—that you initiate—would be an acceptable start…." he trailed off as their eyes met.

In the distance, the clock in Hogsmeade was chiming midnight. Nineteen forty five began with Hermione bending down and pressing her lips to Tom's, bells in Hogsmeade chiming, and his fingers sliding to the buttons of her coat as their lips moved against each other in an ancient practise.


	35. 35: The Outsider

Bad Romance

Author's Note: Okay, so, I totally had this written out before. On Sunday, it was ready to be posted, but….I just could not bring myself to post it. It wasn't done right because I had my reservations about this chapter when I first wrote it. So i deleted it and started over again, and just kind of went with what I wanted to happen. This sort of chapter is a very new and alien thing for me. I hope I did this tastefully.

Also, THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH! Your reviews are awesome. Please continue to send me your questions and comments and criticism, because they're so helpful to me. Enjoy!

Chapter Thirty-Five: The Outsider

Hermione could feel the front of her coat slipping away as Tom tugged at it slowly. Another layer of separation between them gone; Hermione could feel his belt buckle digging into her abdomen. Her normally keen mind was a mess, and she knew it wasn't due to the butterbeer. Like the time he had seemed on the verge of using the Cruciatus curse on her, half-formed images and thoughts flitted through her brain, never quite coming to a rest. She thought of Ron's wet kisses, of the blazing look Alphard had given her before leaving the Hog's Head Inn, of how Harry would wince, his fingers flinching, when his scar would begin to hurt. Tom's lips were soft and slick; she thought of how he had half-kissed her on Halloween. Heat was tingling about her body, and Hermione felt like her grip on her own self was slipping away like her coat.

All of her life, she had bound herself to her morals and values. It was what made her Hermione Granger, even beyond her bushy hair and busy brain. She was a good girl. Not only that, she was a _smart_ good girl. But smart good girls did not go drunkenly kissing Lord Voldemort in the snow. They did not grind against his body helplessly, they did not moan when his hands moved against their skin. They did not press their lips harder against his as they felt the zipper at the back of their dress sliding down. But she was too far gone to register these thoughts properly.

His scent and the feel of his tongue against hers were the only things that made up her world now. Thoughts of the other men in her life that she had cared about—either romantically or platonically—melted away, and all that was left was the fact that she and Tom had a chord of brilliance and desire connecting them. They were simply two sides of the same coin, bound to each other for eternity. She knew, even in her drunken and aroused state, that the truth was that she had tied herself inextricably to Tom Riddle. She had done so the moment that she had befriended Harry, and going back in time had only tautened that chord, bringing them painfully closer to one another.

No one else could compare, because no one else shared her lust for knowledge, her desire for excellence. Their only difference—and it was a big one—was that she could love and Tom could not. He had been brought into this world by coercion and deceit, and that was how he was fated to lead his life. In the same way that Gryffindor and Slytherin had been best friends before bitter enemies, she could not conjure indifference towards the young Dark Lord.

And even though she knew she would have to stop this soon, Hermione kept letting herself push the boundaries of what she thought acceptable. Her hands were fisted in his hair, her legs now straddling his hips, their lips locked as she felt her dress slipping against her frame. Then his hands were on her back, pushing aside the dress. She was losing herself in his scent. When they finally broke apart for air, gasping for breath, Hermione could only weakly slump against his hard chest, burying her face in his neck just as she had done her first night at Hogwarts, the collar of his shirt tickling her nose. He sat up and she gripped the front of his robes. Pulling back slightly to look at him was a mistake, because then they were kissing again.

The worst part was that she couldn't even bring herself to hate herself now. Dimly she registered that Tom must have cast some sort of Warming charm, but her hands were in his hair, relishing the way his hair slipped through her fingers. His hands were underneath her coat, gripping her hips. Months of frustration, grief, fear, anxiety, and above all, lust, had been building between them, and now it was beginning to leak out. She had tried desperately to patch the leak, really, but the dam was beginning to go and soon, it would burst. There was simply too much heat between them for her to pull away, but she knew she _had_ to, and soon, lest she risk giving the Dark Lord everything. But why must he be so damn _perfect_? she wondered. It was entirely unfair. Was there a woman in the world who could resist his charms? Now Hermione understood Bellatrix in a new light. Perhaps, if Hermione had not had her own reservations, she would have followed Tom to the ends of the earth, as Bellatrix so willingly did.

"You are submitting to me, but…" Tom said against her lips, his voice breathless and tense, "You're drunk. Who knows if you'll even recall this in the morning?"

Hermione could not bring herself to admit that the feel of his hands on her bare back, the way his belt buckle was now digging into her abdomen, the way it felt for their torsos to be pressed against each other, were things she would probably spend the rest of her life trying to forget. She was not nearly drunk enough to have forgotten, and now she wished that she had had a little more of that butterbeer—or even some firewhiskey—so that she _would_ have a chance of forgetting this.

"I hope I don't recall it in the morning," she said acidly, attempting to stand and stumbling inside, falling back on her rear in front of him. Tom smirked at her as he raked a hand through his hair. For the most part, it fell back into its neat style, though he did look a bit disheveled. Hermione drank in the sight of it.

"I'll make sure you recall it," he parried softly. He got to his feet before offering Hermione a helping hand that she did not take. Humiliation at her own arousal, and the fact that he seemed _fine_, combined and she clumsily got to her feet on her own, the world spinning. She was noticing the cold now, and she hastily tried to rezip her dress. Tom's hands were shoved in the pockets of his cloak as he stared at her hard.

"How will you do that?"

"You'll see," he said innocently. "Now, come, before you freeze to death."

"I can walk by myself," Hermione said hotly. Why did he have to seem so unaffected by what had just occurred? Moments before, he had seemed just as lost in passion as she had been. She felt uncomfortably warm and irritable, while Tom was just as cold as the snow around them. Angrily, Hermione stormed back to the Hog's Head Inn, slipping several times and growling her frustration when she heard his musical laugh behind her.

The bastard even followed her up to her room; Aberforth was too busy with patrons to help her, and Hermione had to endure comments about her backside as Tom followed her up the stairs. She even tried to lock him out, and pressed her full weight against the door to stop him from following her inside. Unfortunately, Tom was stronger, and her shoes were slipping against the floor as he won that particular struggle with ease.

"Now you must have some appreciation for how Black felt after spending alone time with you," Tom teased as he pushed his way inside. The force knocked Hermione to the ground and she struggled back to her feet, panting, as Tom slipped inside and leaned against the door, regarding her with sardonic amusement.

_If this is how Alphard felt after we would make out, then I will send him all of the sweets in Honeydukes as an apology,_ Hermione thought irritably, scrambling backward and feeling for her wand. It was still dark in her room, and in a moment of clarity, Hermione ran to the window to take down her picture of Harry and Ron. Her map was hidden, luckily, but she was panicking as she could hear his shoes along the hardwood floor as he approached her slowly. Backed up against her desk, Hermione lit the candles with a shaky wave of her wand. It seemed a poor idea to lock herself in a tiny room with Lord Voldemort, especially in her condition. Tom had shrugged off his cloak and hung it on a hook by the door. His cheeks were highly colored, whether from their activity or the cold, Hermione did not know. His hair was ruffled slightly and his eyes seemed to be burning holes into her. The desk creaked behind her as Hermione backed up further against it, gripping her wand.

"You yourself said that forcing yourself on me would not be a victory," Hermione warned, holding up her wand. Tom's lips curled into a half-smirk as he took in the wand.

"I don't _need_ to force you," he said darkly. "Now I know you'll come willingly."

"You said that since I was drunk, it didn't qualify," Hermione shot back, though her lips were going dry. And still, as he continued to stroll towards her, excitement began to build inside of her. Now she was sobering up enough to hate herself again for her reactions to Riddle that she could not control. Tom laughed callously.

"First of all, they say a drunk man tells no lies. I'm sure the same applies to women," he replied with clinical detachment, his dark eyes sweeping over her form. Now she could see the desire etched in them. Her hand gripping her wand was becoming sweaty. "Second of all, I think it's safe to say you're hardly drunk anymore. Look how sprightly you were in getting your wand…and taking down whatever it was from your walls that you took down? Perhaps it was a picture of me?" he said ponderously. Now he had reached her, and he tilted his head, trying to see behind her. "Though I usually hate having my picture taken, so I have to wonder how you got it."

"It's not a picture of you, you prat," Hermione said hotly, brandishing her wand in a feeble attempt to look threatening. Half of her was telling her to simply Avada Kedavra his evil arse, and the other half—the more vocal one, apparently—was telling her to rip his hunter green sweater from his beautiful body and not let him out of this room until dawn. She recalled him making a similar suggestion on Christmas day, and her cheeks burned as he looked down at her with great amusement.

"Oh? Perhaps a picture of Black, then?"

"No, a picture of my friends back home," she said, and attempted to push him away. Still, he did not budge, and his hands encircled her wrists slowly.

"Well, the best indication that you are truly well and sober is how insolent you are being," he said dryly. "I rather enjoy when you're drunk. You're so…forward. I do not have to chase you quite as much." His hands tightened around her wrists as he forced her hands away from his chest and pinned her wrists on the desk behind her. She was leaning against the desk, their bodies pressed against each other, and though the pressure of his weight bearing down on her wrists against the desk hurt, Hermione hardly noticed it.

"You'll always have to chase me," she hissed, and then, finally, the dam did explode. Tom slid her wrists backward, forcing her to lean further against the desk, just as she struggled against him. Somehow she ended up sitting on the desk, and in their tussle, ink bottles were knocked to the floor. She heard them shatter, but she was too busy writhing away from him. Yet every move she made only seemed to force her closer to him.

"Dammit, Hermione, _what_ will it take to get through to you?" he growled. It was such a sensuous sound to her ears that she shivered. Her wand fell from her hands and clattered to the floor among the shards of the shattered ink bottles as their lips connected for the second time that night in a kiss more searing than ever before. Tom was standing between her legs, still pinning her wrists against the desk, but Hermione could not struggle any longer as she melted into the kiss. A ringing in her ears—warning bells?—was only somewhat noticeable amid the haze of desire. Now she knew that Tom was just as affected by this as she was, and she did not protest when he gripped both her wrists with one hand and unzipped her dress with the other. She could only sigh as she felt it falling from her shoulders, felt his free hand sliding it down her arms. When he released her to pin her torso down against the desk, she did not try to break away, did not try to stop him. And when she felt the top of her dress bunch around her waist as he again pinned her wrists over her head, she merely pressed her legs together, holding him in place against her.

She did not close her eyes as his lips moved from her lips to brush against her neck, then over her shoulder and arm. The fabric of his sweater was so rough against her skin, and she longed to simply remove it from him.

So lost in her own passion was she that when Hermione realized her arm was _bare_ to his eyes, it was too late. His lips and tongue had run over the scars on her forearm—she had not realized that scar tissue could be so very sensitive—and when he pulled back in curiosity, Hermione saw what he had seen.

In the candlelight, the raised, white letters spelling out the term for her birth were cast in high relief as Lord Voldemort looked down at them.


	36. 36: The Hollow

Bad Romance

Author's Note: So, holy shit. That is the most reviews I have ever gotten for a single chapter. You guys are SERIOUSLY amazing. I keep forgetting about all of the problems in my personal life because every time I check my phone, there's always at least one new review. Each and every one of you guys is amazing and intelligent, and if I don't respond to your review, it's usually because I am just pinched for time, but will hopefully get to it as soon as possible.

WARNING: This chapter is explicit. I tried to keep it tasteful, but unfortunately, there is such a thing as plot-related sexy tiemz. I tried to keep all unnecessary stuff out…I don't think it's too graphic, but I felt like y'all ought to know. Also, I might write a more detailed version and post it on LJ or something. All hands in favor…?

JSKDFHJF. I REALLY HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE THIS CHAPTER. I know I alway say I'm insecure about chapters, but THIS ONE especially. Agh. You all will see why. *Fidgets* And now to go check my inbox excessively and wait for the flames :P

Chapter Thirty Six: The Hollow

"Th-that's just—" Hermione stammered, trying to tug her arm from Tom's sight, but his long fingers tightened round her wrist painfully as he stared at the inside of her forearm with great interest.

"A powerful term, and not one that is normally seen in…" Tom paused, his eyes sweeping over her face, "…print." Hermione gave up trying to writhe away from him—the damage had been done already. Any further attempts at hiding the scar would not only be futile, but they would also heighten the scar's significance. The best thing she could do was to stay calm, though being essentially topless and pinned to a desk with the future Dark Lord positioned between her legs made relaxing rather difficult. Beyond all of this, she was also uncomfortably confronted by her own relief at having worn one of her more attractive bras. _Seriously, I'm acting like Lavender Brown or Ginny, _she thought irritably. Taking a deep breath in, Hermione tried to release Tom, but he leaned forward, his free hand guiding her leg to remain wrapped around him. Hermione swallowed rather audibly as he stared at her penetratingly. "I suppose you won't volunteer how you got a scar this significant," he said softly, his eyes burning holes into her.

And then Hermione felt it: a strange pawing, slipping sensation. She registered what he was doing and let out a gasp as she instinctively did what she had been practicing for weeks now: Tom was using Legilimency on her, so she closed off her mind abruptly. She had expected him to be intrigued by her use of Occlumency, but his eyes flashed as he seemed to ram against the closed doors of her mind. He narrowed his eyes, his nostrils flaring as he exhaled, and pressed her harder against the desk.

"That is a private matter, Tom," she warned in as cool a tone as she could muster. _Think fast. Come up with something to sate his curiosity…_She grasped at proverbial straws before coming up with something. "I was…er, the subject of…bullying," she said rather lamely, knowing as soon as it was out that Tom would not believe her.

"Lying again," he said silkily, bringing her arm to his mouth. "Hermione, don't make me _make_ you tell me how you acquired this scar…" For a moment, she feared the Cruciatus Curse. Remembering prior experiences with it, Hermione struggled wildly for her wand. She would _not_ have the Cruciatus Curse put on her ever again, especially in such a compromising position. She'd rather take either of the other two Unforgiveables, and to do that, she would _not_ go down without her wand..

But Tom did not seem to have Unforgivable Curses on the brain: he slammed her down against the desk and it creaked under her weight and his force.

"Let me go," she ground out, trying to use any leverage she could against him. Her wrist was beginning to ache in his tight grip as he pinned her against the hard wood, the candlelight shuddering around them. The friction between their bodies made them both bite back groans; Tom bent forward until he was using his shoulders to hold her torso against the desk. Hermione watched, her chest heaving and her heart pounding, as he traced the letters of her scar with his lips and tongue. Goosebumps rose along her skin and, without meaning to, she let out a whimper. She wanted to close her eyes against the delicious sensation, but the sight of Tom's lips against her skin was riveting. If the scar had not been burned into her flesh before, it certainly was now. For a moment, she forgot to try and fight her way away from him as she melted beneath him. His lips softly fluttered from her arm up to her shoulder, and he pulled away for a moment, his eyes dark with wickedness as he looked up at her.

"What about this one?" he murmured, using his free hand to run his fingertips along the scar that Dolohov had given her. It spanned from over her heart to her ribcage on the opposite side; it was mostly faded but Hermione got the feeling that, in tandem with Bellatrix's little gift, it looked suspicious as well. She licked her lips, trying vaguely to come up with a reason for why she had it, but Tom was sliding her dress further down her hips. "No lie for me?" he teased. Hermione heard the soft rustling of fabric as her dress slipped between them and crumpled on the floor. Tom drank in the sight of her with his eyes, and Hermione detested herself, for all she could think of was _why_ Tom still had that damned sweater on. The heat was oppressive as Tom looked down at her, his eyes roving over her body. Remembering her wand on the ground, Hermione made to sit up, but with a single hand, Tom pressed against her chest and pushed her back down again slowly. His hand roamed along her scar again, then brushed over her hipbones, coming to a rest on her hip.

"Trying to seduce the story from me?" Hermione asked shrewdly, though her breath hitched as she felt his fingertips tracing the edge of her panties, his facial expression one of great intrigue. His eyes flickered to hers for a moment, his lips forming a devilish smirk.

"You doubt I could?" he parried lightly, arching his brows at her. Hermione scoffed, hating herself for how obviously her body was reacting to his touch. She lay there, staring up at him. Anything she said would sound like a challenge, or else like accepting the invitation implicit in his words, so she said nothing. "You really don't believe I could have you do anything I wanted?" he continued, tugging at the fabric of her panties at her hip. Hermione pressed her lips together. "I don't need the Imperius curse, Hermione. I think you _want_ to give me everything."

Her mouth was dry.

"I don't," she said, trying to slide away from him, but as usual, he had managed to corner her. "I don't want to give you anything."

"Your body language tells a different story," he said coldly. Hermione's cheeks burned and she wrapped her arms around herself.

"I was just tipsy," she protested, "and I'd appreciate it if you went home now."

"Is that _really_ what you want?" Tom asked coyly, hooking his index finger inside the waistband of her underwear and tugging slightly. Hermione exhaled hotly, her cheeks aflame as she stared at the hand threatening to pull her panties down. The sight of it was more provocative than anything she had ever laid eyes on. She seethed, scrunching her eyes shut as his hand released her underwear and moved down her leg. She could feel his warm breath against the skin of her inner thigh as he hitched her leg over his shoulder. "Because I think, as usual, you're lying," he said against her skin. Hermione moaned again involuntarily, keeping her eyes shut. _He's trying to prove he can seduce the information out of me… _she told herself, gripping the edge of the desk to keep herself grounded. And yet she was having an increasingly difficult time trying to catch her breath. Her palms were sweaty; when she felt his lips trace upwards, she gasped and tried to jerk away from him. Tom straightened, looking at her with his ever-penetrating gaze. _Do not let him inside your mind,_ she warned herself, yet to see his cheeks flushed, his lips parted slightly as he too tried to catch his breath, Hermione felt her grip on reality slipping away.

"Yes," she said in a wavering voice. "I don't want you, and I refuse to tell you about my scars," she added, trying to sound firm. She feared that this might anger him, but he only gave her that maddening smirk.

"That scar is a significant one; you can't just brush it off. I knew you were different from the moment I first saw you. You can duel nearly as well as I can; that's an accomplishment. You already are skilled enough in Occlumency to fight my advances. You have private meetings with Dumbledore, you aren't going home to your parents…And now, these two scars…they look like the product of powerful dark curses. How did you get them?"

"I'm not telling you; it's none of your business," she said harshly as his fingers resumed tracing the edge of her underwear.

"Suit yourself," he said simply, "but I'll get it out of you—one way or the other."

"What methods did you have in mind?" she asked, trying to mimic his detachment. Tom smirked.

"A few things," he said casually, before leaning forward, his tongue running along the tender skin where his fingers just had. Hermione gasped again; involuntarily her hands fisted in his hair as her world blurred, her legs tensing around his hips. "But I thought perhaps we could continue where we just left off, anyway, since I intend to have you screaming my name before the night is out at any rate."

"High expectations," Hermione gasped.

She sat up and tugged at the hem of his sweater as their lips locked again. Everything was still spinning, but she knew she was stone-cold sober. This was not inebriation, this was unbridled desire, heightened by the fear of giving into such desire. She pulled him down with her, her hands slipping to his back and yanking the hem of his sweater upwards. She delighted in the feel of his skin there. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was furiously shouting at herself to stop this nonsense at once, but every time Tom touched her, every time his silver tongue flicked against hers, she abruptly forgot to listen to that particular voice. His hands roamed up and down her torso; it was entirely different from how Ron had touched her. When Tom's hand grazed her breast, she wanted to scream at him for only touching her lightly. Even though they were kissing, even though their hips were pressed against each other, it wasn't _enough. _

As she urged the sweater off of him, Tom helped her, and soon it joined her dress on the floor in a soft rustle. He laughed against her lips as they ground against each other, the desk creaking loudly now underneath the movement.

"I knew you wanted me," he taunted breathlessly. Hermione pulled at the white undershirt that had been tucked into his pants; when he drew back to yank it over his head, she admired his firm abdomen, his lean chest, his sinuous arms. "You _will_ tell me how you got those scars," he said through clenched teeth as the friction and heat between them increased. Hermione could only cling to him as he pulled her against him, his hands moving roughly from her hips to her back.

"No, I won't," Hermione retorted, attempting to pull away from him. For a moment, they regarded each other, each panting, their cheeks flushed, their hair in disarray. As they made eye contact, Tom attempted Legilimency again; she barred him from her thoughts. It was not difficult as the sight of him half-clothed was consuming her brain, and she felt like all memories and thoughts had been banished from her brain.

"Insolent witch," he cursed after giving up on that particular attempt at Legilimency.

"Get out of my room," Hermione ordered, sliding off the desk and crouching to grab her dress. Tom stared at her for a moment, hard, before a strange, highly pleased smile lit up his angelic features, twisting them into something demonic.

"Alright," he said quietly, and picked up his undershirt and sweater. He pulled each on slowly, and Hermione hated both garments all the more for every inch of glorious pale skin they covered. When he had finished pulling the hunter green fabric over his head, Hermione watched in shock as he turned to retrieve his cloak from the hook by the door. "Good night, Hermione. Happy new year, and thank you for the _gift._" With a last sly smile, he turned and opened the door. Hermione frantically clutched the dress to her body, wrapping it around her haphazardly before following him to the door.

"That's _it_?" she blurted, reminded of how infuriating his nonchalance had been when she had guessed his favorite book. "You nearly forced yourself on me back there…and…" she sputtered. She was enraged that he, again, seemed so unbothered, so unflustered by having cut their activity short. Tom was out the door now, having just swirled his cloak around his shoulders gracefully. He looked over his shoulder at her, half-shadowed in the darkness of the hall. "You're just going to leave?"

"You did ask me to," he reminded her coldly, though there was a victorious flashing in his eyes. "Unless you'd rather I stay…?"

"No!" Hermione said violently, though the heat in her cheeks told a different tale. Tom turned to face her again, cocking his head to the side in interest.

"I could rip that damned dress off you now and take you right here against your door," he stated very calmly, as though reciting definitions from a dictionary, "or I could turn and leave, and we could both go to our own beds, frustrated and putting off the inevitable yet again."

Hermione shivered at his words and made to close the door to him, but that time was all it took for him to make his way back to her. The door slammed shut as he pulled her back into the darkness of the hall roughly, and Hermione dropped her dress in surprise. And then there was the ripping of fabric as he ripped her last garments from her body, and she could only moan into his mouth.

"All you need do is surrender, Hermione," he whispered sibilantly against her lips as her now ruined undergarments joined her dress on the floor, and she was lifted from her feet and pinned against the door by Tom's body. Down below them were the sounds of the bar as the patrons celebrated the end of one year and the beginning of another with indecent enthusiasm; all Hermione's desire-addled brain could bring itself to reflect on was how, by wrapping her legs around Lord Voldemort's hips and allowing him to do the things he was doing, Time was shattering around her.


	37. 37: Papillon

Bad Romance

Author's Note: This took a while to post because I had a wedding to go to in another state. Guys, there have been so many weddings this fall. It's kind of annoying, actually. Every weekend is taken up by either a wedding or a bridal shower. Argh!

Anyway…. thanks for all of the feedback from last chapter. This chapter moves the plot in its true direction, and now this story is finally getting on track where I originally wanted it to be. It's much darker from here on out, and there is a lot more from Tom's POV now, as it is necessary. As usual I'm terrified that you guys will hate it, but…oh well. So far you guys have been INCREDIBLY supportive of me and what I have set out to do, and it brightens every day.

PLEASE REVIEW! (and enjoy!)

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Papillon

The door was creaking noisily with their combined weight against it; Hermione was grateful for the raucous crowd downstairs as it masked the embarrassing noise. Physically she had never been this close to a person; the fact that it was Lord Voldemort that she was so intimately pressed against was a fact that she did not wish to examine more closely. The unfairness of it all built up inside her. Even beyond the friction caused by their brilliant minds interacting, even beyond the forces of good and evil that rammed into one another between them, was a pure, raw, brutal attraction that Hermione had never before known. Ron's love had been pure, sweet, and gentle. Alphard's attraction had been exciting and fun. But Tom… This was not love, but it was so far beyond attraction that Hermione, the perennial bookworm, had no words for it. Attraction implied that she had a choice, but Hermione had never before felt more powerless in her life.

"I can't surrender," she said against his lips, her fingers slipping inside the collar of his cloak, beneath his sweater and undershirt, and coming to claw at the smooth, hard planes of his back and shoulders. She loved the way his hair slipped through her fingers when she reached one hand into his dark waves, loved that she was ruining the style he so carefully swept it into every day. Finally, she could tell that Tom was out of breath too, and she loved that best of all. The acute feelings of powerlessness that she had been experiencing were somewhat mediated; making Tom breathless was a victory, and not a small one at that. She heard the squeaking of the knob as he opened her door with one hand, the other clutching her body to his. "The clothes," she gasped, and he absently kicked her garments into the room with them. The candles were lower now; soon they'd burn out. Hermione caught their reflection in her mirror and it seemed that the mirror acted as a window into reality. "Wait. Put me down," she interrupted suddenly. Tom ignored her and carried her to the bed. "Stop it," she warned him mid-kiss. "I don't want this."

"Give up the lying, silly witch. It doesn't suit you," he simply said, his weight pinning her against the old mattress.

"I'm not lying," she said louder, attempting to push him away and sorely wishing for her wand. "We can't do this, Tom." Hermione was beginning to feel frantic now; as reality set in and she realized that she had only herself to blame for getting caught in this situation.

"You've always lied before. Why should I listen now?" Tom parried softly, though he did pull back slightly, his hands gripping her hips uncomfortably tightly. His eyes roving over her body, Hermione had never felt more exposed in her life. Indeed, she had never before been this exposed before in her life, not even to Ron. She hated herself for how the desire in his eyes warmed and flattered her; was even that part of his act? He sank against her again, his lips capturing hers. For a split second, Hermione forgot herself and got lost in the kiss. But once again, she remembered herself before things progressed further, though this time she acknowledged that simply asking Tom to stop would not be enough. Pretending to undress him further, she slipped her hands inside his robes, distracting him by tightening her legs around his hips. She delighted in the barely audible groan that escaped him just as her fingers closed round his wand hidden in his robes; she slipped it out and pulled back to point it at his throat, both of them panting.

"Let me go and get out of my room," she ordered in a hiss. Tom looked amused and even a bit surprised as he looked down at his wand.

"Well done, Hermione. I didn't even realize you were stealing it," he congratulated her, and Hermione tried to not enjoy the breathless quality of his voice too much. His dark eyes searched hers, but Hermione looked away before he could perform Legilimency; she was not sure she could hold up as well this time. "But I am tired of this game," he continued, irritation quite evident in his voice. His grip on her hips was painful, and he did not relinquish even when Hermione winced in pain.

"Cry me a river," she said coldly. Tom did not smirk at all as he continued to stare at her levelly. "Get off me. Now." She clutched the sheet in front of her body as she and Tom both rose from the bed slowly, with Tom's yew wand still pointed at his throat. As she prodded him to keep moving, she adjusted the sheet to wrap around her form. At the door, she resolved to not try and have the last word. Hiding partially behind the door in case he chose to try and get back in her room, Hermione returned his wand to him. As he accepted it, the look he gave her was like fire behind ice.

"I could use the Imperius curse. I could perform Legilimency. I could torture the truth out of you," he began in a hiss, his nostrils flaring as he apparently struggled to remain cool and collected. "But still I would not possess the deepest, darkest corners of your soul. I could find out the truth this very moment. I could force it out of you. But…" he turned more towards her, his eyes sparking with an energy that Hermione could not identify. "It would not be enough. You still would find ways to hide things from me!"

"Why do you even need to know?" she retorted, her cheeks aflame under Tom's burning gaze. He reached out, holding his wand against her collarbone. "What's the difference between me telling you and you forcing the information from me?"

Tom did not seem to have an answer for her; he retracted his wand and turned on his heel. Hermione watched him stalk down the hall in silence, and when he had disappeared down the stairs, she could finally tear herself away. She went back inside her room, shutting the door with a trembling, weak hand, and stared at the mussed bed, the shattered ink bottles, and her shredded garments scattered across the floor. Yet the most she could bring herself to do was close her eyes, inhaling his scent that still lingered in the air the way his magic had lingered in the air of the Riddle mansion.

* * *

><p>Scowling, Tom left the Hog's Head Inn that night, winding his way through the jostling, drunken crowd and casting them looks of deepest disgust before stepping out into the New Year's Day snow. It had been his most troubling birthday yet. He looked up once more at the little square of golden light above that was Hermione's window. From here, he only had a view of her wall. Her shadow moved across it a few times, but he never caught a glimpse of her face. Giving up, Tom warily walked to a secluded corner of Hogsmeade and Apparated to the town that housed both of his ancestral homes.<p>

Little Hangleton was silent in the night; it seemed that the townspeople were not nearly as celebratory of the new year as the Hog's Head patrons had been. The snow swirled around him as he set off for the dilapidated Gaunt shack, a mixture of disgust, shame, and perhaps a sliver of pride lighting him as he moved along the hill. The sky was red; tomorrow would bring another snow storm.

The door still was decorated by a snakeskin, and it only took a simple spell to unlock the door as Tom entered the depressing shack. Dust coated every surface; remnants of piteous Morfin's last meal lay in frozen crumbs upon the splintered tabletop. It took a few moments of searching before Tom found what he was looking for: a large pot was hidden in the cupboard, its last traces of Amortentia still apparent on it. He was grateful that magic left behind traces no matter what. He retrieved his beloved wand from his heavy robes and, standing over the large pot, Transfigured it with ease.

He could not help but admire his work. His mother's only signal of greatness, her powerful love potion, had given birth to his second Horcrux's holding. His mother would still, in a twisted way, hold Tom inside her. The pot had become a black and gilded box. With a wave of his wand, it creaked open, and Tom set the ring inside of it with reverence. After a moment of appreciating the way it looked inside the box, and appreciating the wonder of his own incredible magic, he shut the box and hid it under a floorboard in the shack. As he left his mother's old home, he smirked to himself. No one knew of his connection with the Gaunts; no one would ever suspect that he, the great Lord Voldemort that all would one day respect and fear, would hide a part of his most precious soul in a lowly little shack in a _muggle _town of all things… Just as no one had suspected that Salazar Slytherin's last descendants had once dwelled in the same shack.

He was glad to be rid of the Horcrux; the more separation between himself and the thing that he put gave more and more relief. Most likely it had to do with the protective properties; keeping the Horcrux too close to oneself defeated the very purpose of the Horcrux. Still, as he returned to Hogsmeade, a more troubling thought returned. The memory of the scarred lettering against Hermione's arm was revolting, and yet… He glanced again at Hermione's window as he passed by the Hog's Head Inn. Revolting above all was his humiliating and unrelenting desire for the filthy-blooded girl.

His one last comfort was that perhaps he was mistaking simply curiosity for desire. Now that he knew Hermione was a mudblood, he knew that she was the least worthy woman for someone as him. Yet _why_ must he continue to be so intrigued by her? How had she successfully blocked his attempts at entering her mind? How had she resisted him? He could tell it had been a struggle, for certain, yet she had still prevailed in the end, and that was the thing that bothered Tom most.

_It's most certainly curiosity. I do not truly desire a Mudblood, _he told himself as he slipped inside the castle. When he entered the Slytherin common room, Black was there, staring hollowly into the fire. Tom did not wish to interact with the Seeker at a time like this. Lately he had noticed a change in Black, and it was worrisome. Not because he cared about him in the slightest, but because sometimes, he thought Black's cleverness was catching up with him…

"Happy new year, Black," Tom greeted. Alphard dropped into a sort of reluctant bow that irked Tom.

"Happy new year, my Lord," Alphard replied sardonically. For a moment, Tom wondered if Alphard was drunk..but no, he was not. Tom took his place in the armchair by the fire; Alphard returned to his seat. Tom wished to reprimand Alphard for his failure at alluring the giants, yet it was too risky to do it here. Better to get Black when they were truly alone…Tom thoughtfully fingered his wand. He cast a heavy look to Alphard, and used Legilimency when they made eye contact. Tom was still not as skilled as he would like in performing subtle, undetected Legilimency, so he could only catch fragments and shimmering bits and pieces of Alphard's thoughts from this distance. His stomach turned when he caught the Mudblood's face, her wide brown eyes and pretty little mouth more pronounced in Alphard's memory. Alphard shifted; perhaps he did not know what, precisely, was occurring but Tom knew he realized that _something_ was happening to him. He looked away into the fire again, and Tom resisted the urge to simply curse him here and now. Still, Legilimency and other forms of magic were not the only ways to gain knowledge, and Tom certainly enjoyed testing the limits of his own charm. Slyly, he looked away and then back to Black again.

"I saw Hermione tonight," he ventured, waiting with bated breath for the Seeker's reply. Alphard flinched; it didn't take a Legilimens to see the jealousy and resentment clouding Alphard's features. Further, the use of Hermione's first name implied a level of intimacy that Tom knew Alphard would both appreciate and dislike.

"Oh, how is she?" he asked with forced nonchalance. For a moment, Tom recalled how the witch had cut their activity short. His own frustration with her nearly bubbled over, but he managed to shoot Alphard a victorious grin. Alphard's brown eyes flashed with hatred that even he could not hide.

"She's…excellent," Tom replied with heavy insinuation. Alphard pressed his mouth into a thin line.

"Good for you, my lord," he said coldly as he rose to his feet. With a bow so low that it was quite clearly sarcastic, Alphard excused himself. "I'm tired. I'm off to bed. See you tomorrow."

For a while, Alphard's jealousy was a point of enjoyment for Tom, yet as he continued to gaze thoughtfully into the flames, the events from earlier returned to him in graphic detail. The feel of the Mudblood's soft curves in his hands, the little whimpers she let out every time he found a sensitive spot, the jarring white scar tissue against her smooth, creamy skin, the heady musk of her natural scent. The usually frigid air of the Slytherin common room now felt suffocatingly hot; he had to remove his cloak to make it bearable.

He gripped his wand tightly, letting out slow, seething breaths. He did _not_ desire a Mudblood. He was simply curious. And the only way to sate his curiosity—for it was _not_ desire—was to get the truth out of her once and for all.

Tom simply had to determine the right, most satisfying way to do it.

* * *

><p>Lying on her mussed bed, still twisted in her sheets, the sharp tang of ink mixing in the air with Tom's scent, Hermione came to a startling conclusion: she could not go on like this. She could not patiently wait until the right time to destroy the Horcruxes, for she was having more and more difficulty reconciling Tom with who he truly was. She thought of Regulus, and decided that was the only way: she would have to replace the Horcruxes with replicas.<p>

Clutching the sheets tighter against her bare skin, trying to rid herself of the memory of his hard body against hers, Hermione decided that tomorrow was a new year, and indeed, she would begin it by replacing the ring with a fake one. She would even put a curse on it, so that the manner of Dumbledore's death would not change. She did not know why she had not figured this out before.

She changed into fresh clothes, and threw out her garments—including the red dress. Immediately she set to work researching curses, for if she did not occupy her own mind, she knew that without a doubt, thoughts of Tom—and all of the unbearably satiating things he had and could have done to her—would instead.


	38. 38: Follow You Down

Bad Romance

Author's Note: As usual I am compelled to express my gratitude: once again, you guys, with your wonderfully encouraging and helpful reviews, have made up for all of the problems going on in my life.

IMPORTANT: JKR stated in DH that Voldemort _thought _he would feel when his Horcruxes were attacked, but he did not actually end up being able to sense when they were gone. A lot of you have asked about this, so here you go.

Also: Hermione is trying to alter the future leading up to the final battle as little as possible; the only thing she wishes to change is who lives and who dies when Voldiething invades Hogwarts. Thus cursing the ring is necessary.

Many of you expressed your unhappiness with the fact that Hermione and Tomdemort did not go through with… *ahem* their activity. Believe me, it hurt me more than it hurt you guys. Even I'm getting frustrated just writing it! But it was necessary. I know that their relationship is getting tedious, as one of you put it, but it is also necessary. Hermione Granger does not just automatically give into the Dark Lord. (also…with someone with as much of an obsession for theatrics as me, do you really think that I'm going to have them get it on in the Hog's Head? Hint: HELL NO. When it happens…IT WILL BE EPIC. And there will be a tasteful link to the full version, posted elsewhere, for all of you to *responsibly* click on.)

One of you said that you felt Hermione is extremely OOC in this fic….which is kind of my worst fear. But most of you seem to think that Hermione and Tom are both notably IC, so I'm going to assume majority rules and assume I'm on the right track with her. Sorry!

This chapter is sort of in response to a request that I believe Brin Hearts Harry had.

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Follow You Down

Sweat was dripping down Hermione's brow; she dug her nails into the cushioned arms of her chair, gritting her teeth. _Close your mind. _

"You certainly do have a talent for Occlumency, Miss Macmillan," Dumbledore finally said after he had broken the gaze. He was sitting across from her at his desk, Fawkes perched behind him and cawing softly, a friendly fire crackling merrily in the fireplace. It was a comfortable, cheery place to be, and Dumbledore's friendship (and the Occlumency lessons) were much appreciated by Hermione.

"I've been reading up on it," she explained eagerly as she mopped her brow with her sleeve. "Also, I think the extra pressure on me to _not_ let you find out the future is helping too. It really makes me concentrate on it." Outside, the sun was beginning to set. In two days, the castle would be packed with students again, but for now Hermione could enjoy her private time with Dumbledore. They sat back in companionable silence for a few moments, enjoying tea and biscuits and each staring thoughtfully into the fire. When Hermione chanced a glance at Dumbledore's face, she was surprised by the weariness there. _Of course… the time to confront Grindelwald is drawing nearer, and confronting Grindelwald really means confronting his past. _Hermione cleared her throat, catching Dumbledore's attention. "You know…" she began hesitantly, hating how high her voice sounded. "P-professor, I know some about your past. Not a lot," she said hastily, flinching at Dumbledore's piercing blue gaze. "But I know what it's like to have been charmed by the dark side. It is humiliating, but the things that have happened have occurred. You can't possibly rest easy whilst Grindelwald continues on his rampage. I _know_ you can't. But he does have the Elder wand now, and you know you're the only one who can possibly defeat him now."

Dumbledore stared heavily at her for a few moments before letting out a sigh. Fearing that he might ask her to leave, Hermione hastened to backtrack. "I-I'm not trying to tell you what to do," explained Hermione desperately. "But I can tell how it's weighing you down, and I know how hard it is, not having a soul to confide in. But whatever occurs…" she swallowed, "I'll Obliviate it from your memory, afterwards. Whatever you find out…it won't cause you pain forever. And you can think of confronting Grindelwald as…as a penance, of sorts."

"I appreciate the words," he said heavily after a few moments' painful quiet. "Excellent job, today. Have a good evening."

Dumbledore's abrupt dismissal was hurtful. Hermione blinked back tears of regret as she wound her way back to Hogsmeade that night, shivering in the icy air. She wished she could explain to Dumbledore that she had not meant to offend him. Quite the opposite, in fact: she knew better than anyone of the seductive powers of a charming Dark wizard. Thinking of Tom, Hermione wrapped her arms around herself. Ever since that night, she had been unable to sleep in peace. Memories of what had passed between them, as well as vivid images of what might have been, kept her from getting a decent rest. She tried to occupy herself with her mission, and to a degree, that had worked well thus far. She'd come up with a solidified plan for destroying the ring, which she planned to carry out tomorrow. Still, she had never felt more guilty and _filthy._ How must Dumbledore feel, having lusted after the man who had in some way or another brought on the death of Ariana and the genocide of European wizards and muggles alike? _It must be worse than the Cruciatus curse, _she though miserably as she unlocked the door to her room.

Feeling restless as she always did lately, Hermione sat at her little desk, poring over texts on Occlumency, with her lesson with Dumbledore still fresh in her mind. She had just gained focus and was able to push worries of Grindelwald out of her mind when a knock at the door startled her from her work.

"J-just a minute," Hermione called uneasily, sweeping her texts under the desk and glancing round the room one last time, searching for incriminating paraphernalia. At last, with her wand tucked into the waistband of her skirt just in case, Hermione tentatively opened her door a sliver.

The sliver of warm golden light fell across Alphard's familiar face; Hermione let out an involuntary little gasp of surprise. She and Alphard had not spoken in quite a while at this point: ever since she had found him so very drunk at the Hog's Head, in fact. Hermione was unsure of what to expect, but when Alphard cracked a smile, relief flooded through her.

"Long time no see, Hermione," he greeted a bit awkwardly, a grin still playing on his lips. Hermione returned the smile and opened the door wider, gesturing for Alphard to come in. He entered slowly, looking ill at ease but still with an air of his old confidence. He had always been wiry, but there was a hollow quality around his cheekbones that worried Hermione. The cuts that she had attempted to heal had left very light, almost invisible scars.

"Long time no see. Can I help you?" she asked after shutting the door. Alphard laughed a bit callously.

"Is that any way to greet an old friend, Hermione?" he teased lightly, and dragged her chair out from her desk and sat on it backwards, his arms folded over the back, chin resting on his forearms. He looked up at Hermione, still grinning, and now Hermione began to feel worried. She cautiously sat on the edge of her bed. "Actually, there _is_ something you can help me with," he admitted. "I'm sure you remember our conversation from Christmas Eve." His brown eyes searched her face for a moment before he continued. "Now you know where I was, and now, unfortunately, you are implicated in this whole mess. I also have managed to—" he paused, looking a bit guilty and a bit mischievous, as though he knew he had done something wrong but held no regret, "—er, _overhear_ the barman talking to Professor Dumbledore. He thinks you're up to something…"

There was a faint buzzing in her ears; Hermione realized that it was likely the sound of the blood rushing to her head. She had always been able to keep her head with Harry or Ron around, because she _had_ to be the one to keep calm. But on her own, it was difficult to mask her reaction to his words. "Don't bother pretending," he said with a blase wave of his hand. "I already know you are. I've suspected it for months. I thought initially that perhaps you were an Auror or something, but I've written that one off. I'm not sure what you are, but either way, we're now in this together."

"How did your meeting with the giants go?" Hermione asked quietly, effectively evading the question implied in his words. Alphard chuckled darkly and rolled his eyes.

"Well, you can probably imagine," he said sardonically. "It's gotten me in trouble with Riddle—he hasn't done anything _yet,_ but I know my time will come any day now."

There was no question that he was likely referring to the Cruciatus curse. Alphard was being heartbreakingly cavalier about this; it was hard to accept that Alphard, who should have remained an innocent rich bachelor (not unlike Tom Riddle Sr.), had been drawn into such a mess. "And I'm saying that if you're working against him, we ought to join forces."

"I didn't peg you as the type to take sides," Hermione said after a moment of silence. Alphard's lips curled.

"I don't have a choice anymore. I got involved with Riddle's _goals_ by accident; we were just best friends first and then this happened."

Hermione was curious as to how much Alphard knew; cocking her head to the side, she regarded him warily.

"Goals?" she prodded.

"You take Occlumency lessons with Dumbledore," Alphard said irritably. "Somehow I have the feeling you're well aware of Riddle's goals. Look, I think he's—" Alphard halted, as though unsure of whether to continue, "—well, he has a lot of secrets. And…he disappears places a lot. I don't have free reign, and can't easily follow him. But you…you can make yourself invisible. And Dumbledore makes sure you can go wherever you like. You're the ideal candidate to follow Tom when he goes places, and find out what he's up to."

"What do you think he's up to?" Hermione's heart was pounding.

"I have theories…" Alphard looked outside for a moment, a flash of melancholy on his boyish face. He looked back to Hermione somewhat beseechingly. "I think…I think he's trying to join forces with Grindelwald," he said quickly, his words tumbling out in a breathless rush. Hermione grimaced. Alphard was off the mark, unfortunately: Riddle would _despise_ the idea of sharing in the glory of bringing down the Muggle world with Grindelwald. Still, it was best to let Alphard believe that for now. She thought it unlikely he'd believe the story of the Horcruxes.

"That's a serious accusation," Hermione said carefully, watching Alphard's face. He narrowed his eyes slightly at her.

"You're just afraid to believe it because you're in love with him," he accused hotly, the color rising in his face. It was difficult to not match his accusation with one of her own; instead, Hermione exhaled, forcing herself to let go of her reaction.

"That's not it," she said gently, "I'm _not_ in love with him. I will admit I am attracted to him, but I do _not_ love him. I'm just saying that you know very well how other people will take a statement like that, and while I don't disagree, the rest of the world likely will."

For a few moments they stared levelly at each other, each apparently waiting for the other's move.

"So are you with me?" Alphard said finally, an edge to his voice that gave away his fear she'd say no. Hermione let her lips curl into an unsteady, wry grin.

"Yes."

The elation in his face was apparent. Hermione could not help but marvel at how he could oscillate between being a mischievous boy with a glass head and being a calculating, manipulative schemer. "So, what's the plan?" she asked finally. Alphard's body language had changed, and it was like the candles in the room had brightened. His posture was more open, his eyes sparkling with warmth again.

"He has followers," he explained in a low tone. "But he mostly operates alone. I know he plans to go to Paris tomorrow; for what, I have no clue."

"And you want me to follow him," Hermione confirmed. "How did you find out where he intends to go?"

"Simple. He hates to give us any concrete answers, but he loves to gloat about things. He can't resist dropping very broad hints that the others are too idiotic to pick up on," Alphard explained. There was a note of ego in his voice that had Hermione grinning. He was even more arrogant than Harry could occasionally be. "That, and Avery heard Dippet and Riddle talking about the Seine yesterday. Apparently he asked for permission to leave the grounds to go."

They continued talking and planning late into the night, and by the time they both agreed they could not keep their eyes open any longer, Hermione was feeling cheered up and energetic. With Alphard's inside view to Riddle's activities, her mission would be a lot more informed. The only problem was that she had intended to replace the ring tomorrow, but she was sure she could find ways to sneak out to Little Hangleton again soon. Hermione showed Alphard how to perform a Disillusionment charm (she contended that this was how she remained invisible when she prowled the corridors of Hogwarts at night) and stood at her window, watching the path to Hogwarts. She could not see him, obviously, so she could not ensure his safe return, but she still felt compelled to watch over him.

Still, as she crawled into bed, the pink and purple steaks of dawn already painting the sky, she could not help but feel fear at following him all the way to Paris. And she could not help but wonder why he could possibly want to go there.

* * *

><p>He had not come up with any satisfactory plans for wheedling the information out of Hermione, and it was driving him to the brink of insanity. That night, Tom lay in his four poster, glowering at the ceiling. Usually plans came to him easily; tonight, they eluded him completely. Every plan somehow ended with him seducing her once and for all, but the repulsion of her birth filled him with disgust and shame.<p>

Earlier, he had been discussing plans for the future with his Knights, as in a move that completely took everyone by surprise, Avery brought up the future. Tom had, of course, already carefully planned it out: after graduation he would promptly ask Dippet to be hired as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. He was aware that Merrythought planned on retiring, and the timing was absolutely impeccable. He would accept the post and begin training his own army in secret, whilst his Knights would begin their own work around the world. Crabbe, with his brutish behavior, would most certainly need a companion. Most likely Avery would be ideal, as he was dispensable enough in case Crabbe's idiocy ended them. Lestrange had a sinister streak that Tom could appreciate; he'd do well on his own. Malfoy was, in Tom's opinion, nothing more than a bank. His sizable inheritance would fund their cause for long enough, and Tom's meager salary from his teaching post would contribute as well.

The only issue was Alphard Black, the biggest wildcard that Tom had ever seen. Alphard, with his own brand of rebellious charm and his sharp tact, was the ideal Knight. His connections were impressive, his blood was the purest blood in England, and he had enough mastery of spellwork to work well in tandem with his charm. Unfortunately, Alphard's rebellion extended to Tom as well. Tom narrowed his eyes. It had all begun with that damned Mudblood. Tom had tried to explain to Black that there were far worthier women…. and yet, Tom could understand Alphard's conflict as well. Hermione's delightedly vulnerable brown eyes haunted his dreams, which were filthier than her blood. He had been unable to rest fully, because his dreams were exhausting.

It had been so unbearably satisfying to rip her undergarments from her lithe form, hear her little cry of surprise mixed with pain, nearly masked by the straining and ripping of fabric. Her upper inner thigh had been so smooth against his tongue.

Enraged at his inability to sleep, Tom calmed himself down and contented himself with preparing for his little trip that he planned to take tomorrow. With any luck, it would prove to be fruitful, though his last excursion had been something of a failure. But, at the very least, the ring was safe and protected, and he felt much better with it so well hidden and so far from him. _Probably not supposed to keep Horcruxes near one's body_, he thought as he yawned, finally drifting off to sleep.

* * *

><p>It felt like less than a minute after her head had hit the pillow that Hermione woke up to a barn owl scratching at her window. Pale, early-morning daylight lit up her otherwise dark room and Hermione blinked as she registered the owl begging to be let in. It was Alphard's wake-up owl, letting her know that Tom was preparing to leave the grounds. Hermione sprang up and after hurriedly washing her face and running a comb through her hair, yanked on Ron's maroon sweater over her school uniform. She packed the Invisibility Cloak in her bag and stationed herself by her window. It had a good view of the path into Hogsmeade from Hogwarts. She was about to do a very risky thing, but it was the only satisfactory solution: when Tom appeared in Hogsmeade, she would don the Cloak and Apparate next to him. She'd follow him until he had reached the spot he wished to Apparate from, and at the last second, grasp his cloak. <em>Let's pray to Merlin I don't get Splinched,<em> she thought as her stomach gave a gruesome twist. She recalled Ron getting Splinched and grimaced, trying to quell her nausea. _Focus on the path_, she told herself, squinting out the window. At last, a shadow appeared along the path: it was Tom, wearing his heavy traveling cloak. After sweeping the Invisibility Cloak round her shoulders, Hermione Apparated with a crack down to the high street behind a tree.

Underneath the Cloak, Hermione trod carefully as she followed Tom to the edge of the village. He cast a wary look about him before shrugging off his traveling cloak, a blast of his tantalizing scent greeting Hermione's nose even through the fabric of the Invisibility Cloak. With a wave of his wand, he performed an impressive Transfiguration spell that transformed his cloak into the Muggle-style wool trench that she had seen him in at Minerva's failed wedding. Underneath, he was wearing his usual black suit. Hermione frowned. Was he intending to charm someone today? Hermione held her breath and crept forward, gently taking hold of the back of his Transfigured coat just as he turned on the spot. She scrunched her eyes shut tightly, clinging to his coat with one hand and her own Invisibility Cloak with the other, praying nonsensically in her head that this daft plan worked.

And then they landed in a secluded corner of Paris, in a darkened alleyway. Tom was glancing around—he must have noticed the tug on his coat. Holding her breath, Hermione nonverbally cast a Confundus charm. She was shocked when it actually worked, and Tom momentarily had a blank look in his eyes before seeming to return to himself. Shaking his head, but still seeming to suspect something had occurred, he began striding along the cobblestone alley, his gleaming dress shoes clicking against the wet stone. Hermione hurriedly followed after him, letting out a breath she felt she'd been holding since Tom had appeared in Hogsmeade.

She had no idea where she was going, and it took quite a bit of work to muster enough courage to feel like Harry and Ron were with her now. As she followed Tom along the winding streets of Paris, she reminded herself that she was kept warm by Ron's sweater and kept safe by Harry's Cloak. All she could do now was rely on her own daring and cool logic. The trouble was that Tom was excellent at banishing all logic from her mind, and she could only pray that she'd be able to keep her head round him this time.


	39. 39: Pretty Woman

Bad Romance

Author's Note: DISCLAIMER: So, I admit it—I used a french translator for this chapter. I have never taken french, so this is probably really butchered. If you have taken French, and want to correct it, have a blast, but just know that I fully accept and admit that it is likely wrong.

Also: In the beginning of the summer I had surgery and got healthy again, which was awesome. And now, I just escaped an abusive relationship. Obviously this is also awesome. My life is like, finally coming together, you guys! In the midst of all this I find myself wanting to write even more. Between this and the surgery I feel like I've pushed out of a fog or something. This is probably TMI but I feel connected to you guys and wanted to share this with you :) Writing—and the awesome people who review or PM—has encouraged me so much through these difficult times, and has made them feel not so bad, really.

'Gleeislove' asked for Tomione recs. To be honest, I haven't read any that I enjoyed yet, but I know ShimmeringWater has written a bunch, and though I have yet to check them out, she's very intelligent so I'm sure they're great! That is all I have though.

And no, the chapter title does not mean Hermione has become a prostitute, or Julia Roberts (thank god) for that matter. You'll see when you finish the chappie!

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Pretty Woman

Sleet and snow pelleted them relentlessly. Hermione was glad that there were enough people walking nearby to mask the sound of her shoes hitting the cobblestone, but that presented the issue of making sure she didn't run into people. As it were, it took a lot of expert and careful weaving through the throng of people, and several times Hermione nearly lost sight of Tom. By the time he had apparently reached his destination, she had fallen too far behind him and could not slip into the shop behind him.

She could barely see inside the shop, it was so dark, but she had heard the twinkle of the bell when Tom had entered, so there was no way she could enter unnoticed. _Must be a magical shop. _She crept around the side, looking for some sort of side door that she could use. Muffliato was too risky, and she wasn't sure she could execute as flawless of a Confundus charm on Tom again. At last, a door in the alleyway next to the shop opened; an elderly balding man with a mustache and suspenders was letting a fluffy white cat out. Hermione darted to it and slipped in just before the door banged shut again.

It was a dark hallway lined with wallpaper that must have been dark green or grey, with faded, peeling gold pinstripes that reflected the tiny bits of flickering light from the man's wand. She had been right: this was a magical shop. The dark corridor led to a narrow, steep staircase as well as a door to the left, through which barely audible voices were coming. One of which was Tom's easily recognizable smooth, sensuous baritone. As the elderly man alighted the stairs, creaking with every step, Hermione used the noise as a cover for her own and moved next to the door, pressing her ear to it. Tom's voice was interrupted by a shrill trill of a much too loud giggle.

"Monsieur, puis-je vous aider?" Apparently the clerk was female. Fighting back a loud scoff, Hermione strained harder to hear.

"Ah, oui. Je suis a la recherche d'un point specifique, effectivement." _Of** course** the bastard speaks French. _And now, Hermione could fully appreciate why it was called a 'romance' language. If his voice was sensuous when speaking English, it was a thousand times more so in French. Hermione had the odd urge to slap him for it. Couldn't he just be unattractive in at least _one_ way? At the same time, she had the urge to hear him whispering it sensually in her ear. Damn her overactive imagination.

"Oui?" More unnecessary giggling.

"C'est une tres vieille question. Un medallion. Avec un empierre 's' sur elle, la plus probable dans les emeraudes."

_Un medallion...emeraudes... _It had to be Slytherin's locket. Hermione's eyes widened and she pressed closer to the door, though she was unsure why she was bothering trying to listen, as she could not understand them for the most part.

"Ah, nous avons peut-etre. Permittez-moi de poser mon pere!" Hermione did not speak any French, but she could figure out that the girl planned on asking her father something. With a gasp, she ducked back to the other side of the corridor just as the little door opened, letting in a shaft of pale light. A young, gaunt woman with unnaturally tight red curls and crooked red lipstick appeared and hastened up the stairs, calling "papa! papa!" As she passed, Hermione was hit with a powerful blast of Mille-fleurs, and it took a great concerted effort to not break into a coughing fit. The door hanging open, Hermione had a view of Tom, who, after a furtive glance into the hall, slowly made his way through the shop, poking about. Hermione frowned, watching him. Did he really expect to find the locket here? Hadn't Merope sold it to Borgin years ago? Hermione could hear whispering atop the stairs; the clerk and her father were getting into an argument about something, it seemed. The girl thundered down the stairs, her tango shoes making heavy clunks on the unstable wood. Her father followed, much slower, now wearing a cap and overcoat and carrying a cane. Hermione thought it likely that his wand was hidden in the cane. The elderly man called the fluffy white cat in, and it sauntered into the little hall, its glowing yellowed eyes quickly training directly on Hermione. She pressed herself as flush to the wall as she could as the cat began to hiss. Sweat began to slide down her palms.

"Stupide chat," said the girl in a repugnant voice, kicking it towards the stairs. It hissed and spit at her. Her father barked his distaste for what she had done, and then with an irritable tap of his cane, left out the side door. The girl let out a long-suffering sigh, wearily pinching the bridge of her nose. The latch clicked, and predictably, Tom chose that moment to poke his head into the hall. Immediately she straightened her posture, throwing out her chest and throwing back her rear end and flashing Tom a flirtatious smile. _Probably hoping to marry a rich man and leave this shop, _Hermione thought shrewdly. Tom certainly looked the part of a rich bachelor with too much money to know what to do with it, with his expensive-looking wool trench and gleaming hair, smile, and shoes.

"Est-ce que tout allait bien?" His voice was like honey. He stepped into the dark hall, the shadows playing on the hollows of his cheeks.

"Desole. Papa a dit qu'il a vendu a un Anglais l'autre jour. Apparemment, il a ete l'homme qu'il avait achetees de; il voulait les arriere."

Hermione saw the flash of rage that passed over Tom's features; it was gone in the blink of an eye as Tom frowned, looking stricken.

"Non!" he said in disbelief. He stepped closer and took the girl's hands in his own. "C'est un honte. Mais, merci."

What had happened? Hermione caught something about an Englishman. Perhaps Borgin had bought back the locket? There was no way to know for sure. Hermione watched, the blood rushing to her face, as Tom kissed the clerk's hand, bowing slightly, before beginning to take his leave. She stood there, shocked for a moment, before calling out for Tom to stay.

_Please say no, _Hermione thought, hating herself for wishing it. She should not have cared whether he stayed for a random French girl, and yet, she felt like she was beginning to see a bit green. From behind the girl, Hermione caught Tom giving her an apologetic nod before bidding her goodbye. The girl's posture was crestfallen as the bell on the door tinkled and Tom left the shop. Hermione resented the relief that filled her as she watched the clerk sigh loudly, mutter something in French—most likely a string of curses—before stalking sullenly back into the shop, slamming the door behind her so loudly that something fell off the walls in the shop, meriting a string of what were quite obviously cursewords. Hermione bit back laughter before ducking out the back door to find Tom standing in the alleyway, a smug grin on his face.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle," he said in a wicked tone, reaching out to where Hermione was standing. He almost caught her cloak, but she ducked back just in time. "Hermione!" he scolded, looking irritated now. "Show yourself!"

Hermione took off into a sprint with Tom following behind her at a faster clip. She couldn't outrun him forever, but she didn't want to Apparate yet in case he planned on doing something more. She hid herself behind a stack of crates, crouching down, and hastily stuffed the Invisibility Cloak into her beaded bag just as Tom came round the wall of wooden crates.

"Bonjour, monsieur," Hermione greeted in a close imitation of the clerk's high-pitched trill, adding an absurd little giggle for maximum effect. Tom smirked down at her before chuckling darkly. "I didn't know you spoke French," she added a bit colder than intended as she rose to her full height. Tom arched an elegant brow, a mischievous grin playing on his lips.

"What can I say? I'm a cunning linguist," he said sweetly, as though begging off praise. Hermione turned puce as the memory of his mouth so very high on her thigh scalded her.

"Ha ha," she said shortly, making a show of rolling her eyes. Tom's gaze roved over her before he spoke again.

"What are you doing here, wearing a man's sweater?" he asked with great interest. "Have you followed me to prove you've found someone else to discover your Department of Mysteries?"

"What makes you think it hasn't been discovered already?" she retorted haughtily. "And anyway, I'm here because you looked suspicious, and I was interested in what you were up to."

"So interested you had to Confund me and couldn't simply ask?" he parried, raising his brows at her. Hermione thought there could not possibly be more blood in her face. "I knew it was you because of your scent," he added in a lower voice that sent chills down her spine.

"I-I'm not wearing any perfume," she stammered. And then it hit her: she had kept the sweater in her trunk next to her bottle of perfume. She raised her sleeve to her nose, and indeed found the subtle scent. Tom looked victorious. "Fine," she snapped. "I keep this sweater near my perfume."

"Well, since you're here now, you may as well accompany me," he said, sliding up his wool sleeve to check his watch. "Damn, if we don't hurry, we'll miss her."

"What? Where else are you going?" Hermione demanded. "Who is 'her'? Why am I allowed to accompany you? I'd think you'd rather I didn't."

Tom sighed loudly and gave a sneer of pure disgust at her.

"You'll find out soon enough. In fact, you'll prove to be highly useful," he said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin in thought. "But we'll have to stop by a shop; you can't possibly help me looking like a little ragamuffin I stole off the street. Come," he ordered imperiously, turning swiftly on his heel. When Hermione did not follow him, he paused and glanced over his shoulder at her with unmasked irritation. "We're going to be late," he said in a very loud, slow, patronizing voice, as though explaining the a-b-c's to a slug or similar minded creature. Hermione flushed indignantly.

"Where are we going?" she insisted, stomping her foot.

"Either you can come with me and find out, or I can Hex you to make sure you don't follow me," he snapped waspishly. It was a surprise to see him so irritable, and, intrigued, Hermione finally caved and jogged to catch up with his long, loping strides.

"Why do we have to stop at a shop first?" she bothered him. They came onto a main road, lined with shops. To be on such a clearly fashionable street embarrassed Hermione, especially after she caught her reflection in a shop window: Tom had _not_ been exaggerating when he had said she looked like a 'ragamuffin off the street.'

"Because we're going to an extremely exclusive restaurant to meet a woman I know. And we won't be let in if you look like that."

"Who are we meeting?"

"Must you ask so many damn questions, Hermione? It's like babysitting a psychotic toddler," Tom sighed. With the image of Lord Voldemort babysitting to occupy her, Hermione happily followed Tom until they stopped in front of a shop with three mannequins in the window, all wearing iconic outfits for the era. She swallowed over a lump in her throat.

"Tom, I c-can't afford," she protested, but Tom stoutly ignored her and instead grasped her forearm, hauling her inside.

The shop was enormous. Shelves and displays were everywhere; the carpet was plush and a lovely cream color. Hermione was painfully conscious of how filthy her shoes were from walking along the sleet-covered cobblestoned street. A woman with blonde hair in a gleaming chignon and a simple dark purple dress seemed to glide over to them, welcoming them in what Hermione thought to be very snobby-sounding French. Tom was explaining something to the woman, gesturing to Hermione, and looking suddenly very boyish and shy. The saleswoman seemed to melt and Hermione had to stop herself from slapping Tom. When the saleswoman turned to go, he shot Hermione a sly grin.

"You're my fiancee, and I told them your clothes were ruined by the snow so we had to borrow your little sister's. We're attending our engagement party tonight," he explained in a low voice. Hermione choked on her own spit.

"F-fiancee?" she hissed in outrage. Tom gave a blase wave of his hand, and then turned on the boyish charm again as the same saleswoman returned, flanked by two near-exact clones of her. After more negotiating in French, Hermione was grasped on either side by the two clones and frogmarched away, while Tom gave her a sweet peck on the cheek and told her to 'enjoy' herself. Hermione almost killed him. Almost. She was a little too busy being over the moon about the peck on the cheek.

_Must he be so good at turning on that charm? _she thought furiously as she was pushed into an enormous, well-lit dressing room. She was just barely able to grasp her wand and nonverbally perform the charm to hide her scars. Suddenly one of the clones was taking her clothes off, and informed her in broken English that she did not know enough English to understand Hermione. Fighting back a tempertantrum, Hermione found herself standing in her panties (yes, the stretched-out faded ones with the broken elastic) and an unfortunate white bra with a suspicious stain near the left armpit that Hermione had never determined the cause of. She was almost positive she had had this bra since she had first hit puberty. Clones were taking her measurements and talking in rapid French to each other, and then suddenly one of them was scrubbing her face vigorously. After what seemed like hours of poking, prodding, and pulling, Hermione's hair had been pulled into a gleaming, shiny bun, makeup was on her face, complete with daring red lipstick, and she was...naked. The panties and bra were simply thrown in the trash, and by this time, Hermione was too confused to fight for her modesty and dignity.

"Mademoiselle, you are..." the clone paused, looking uncertain, "Very... small? Perfect French figure?" she gave her an awkward smile, and abruptly Hermione decided she _loved_ these clones. "But...your hair...have you ever...brushed it? And your face has been missing makeup! It is so...shiny."

Hermione immediately despised the clones again. She tried to explain that she cared more about her studies than her looks, but now she was being shoved into a peach silk bra with straps made of tiny pearls, and matching silk panties. The impracticality of such underpinnings had her sputtering, but the women ignored her. _Will NO ONE listen to me today? _Then a peach silk girdle was being fixed on her by one woman as another one was fixing nylons complete with the seams up the back to a peach silk garter belt.

"I-it's not my wedding _night!_" she squeaked, catching her reflection and not recognizing herself. The clones continued to ignore her as they chattered amongst themselves. Finally another one entered, bearing a black velvet jewelry box and a black dress. At least the dress seemed simple enough. Hermione allowed the clones to zip it up, as it had a zipper running all along the side. Strappy black heels that seemed sky-high were unceremoniously shoved on her feet, perfume was spritzed, and then jewelry was applied to her neck and ears.

"Let us show monsieur," said one of the clones, guiding Hermione out of the fitting room.

"N-no! Let me see first!" she squeaked, digging her heels into the carpeting, but the clone gave her a glare worthy of rivaling Mrs. Weasley, and Hermione was led like a prize donkey out to the front of the store, where Tom was being fawned over by more clones. They all hushed and gasped in awe as Hermione was pushed in front of them. Tom turned to her, his jaw dropping as though he had not intended it (of course, he knew very well what he was doing) and he seemed speechless for a moment as he gazed at Hermione. He had so expertly made his dark eyes gleam with love and tenderness that all of the saleswomen looked to each other and let out longing sighs.

"She is beautiful, no?" said the blonde saleswoman that had greeted them rather proudly. "It is like magic, no?"

"Magic indeed," Tom said finally, his eyes flashing with a wickedness intended for Hermione only. She gave him a withering stare before turning to look at herself in the mirror reluctantly. _I probably look completely ridiculous, _she thought bitterly. And then...she saw herself.

The dress was form-fitting and black, hitting her just below the knee. The girdle drew in her waist, giving her an hourglass appearance, and the long sleeves and rather high neck were sleek and, somehow, very subtly sexy. Her hair, pulled into such a smooth bun, showcased the elaborate diamond necklace that sat on her collarbone as well as the simple diamond studs in her ears. She turned to the side and found that, in the back, the dress dipped low enough to expose her shoulder blades. Extra fabric created a fold at the shoulders and going along the back, so that it looked like the dress was draped from her shoulders in the back.

"I-it's amazing," she stammered quietly. She glanced at Tom, preparing to lay on the sarcasm as thick as she could. "But, _darling,_ I don't think we can aff—" she began just as she noticed his lips twitch in the direction of the blonde saleswoman. _...As though uttering a nonverbal spell. _She nearly slapped her forehead in her exasperation. Tom was Confunding the saleswoman into giving them the dress.

"It is...on us!" she said in uncomfortable English, though she was beaming. "Mademoiselle needs a coat, no?" She bustled off, returning with a stylish black coat and matching hat that went perfectly with the dress. Hermione glanced at Tom, who was matching the saleswoman with his own beam of pure delight. After surprisingly sweet fairwells from the saleswomen, they left the store, carrying Hermione's old clothes in a bag bearing the shop's name. As they walked, Hermione noticed other fashionable women taking in the bag and Tom's appearance and scowling at Hermione in obvious jealousy.

"That. Was. _Stealing_," she hissed just before nearly knocking herself to the ground. "And these damn heels! I _cannot_ wear high heels, Tom!" she scolded. Tom was smirking at her as he held out his arm for her in the most debonair way possible. Nearby a group of girls nearly fainted at the sight and Hermione had to stop herself from slapping them all and ordering them to get a grip on themselves.

"But all quite necessary," he said aloofly as Hermione deduced that the only way to not break her ankles was to hold onto Tom's arm. Cursing him every step of the way, she clutched his arm. This time, however, when she caught their reflections in the various shop windows, she was shocked...and amazed. She looked—and felt—like a different person. Like a grown up, really. A fashionable French grown-up with a drop-dead gorgeous fiancee. _How far it is from the truth, _she thought dryly.

"_How _is it necessary? This is absurd."

"I can't have you looking like a drowned mountain troll if you're to accompany me, Hermione," he said rather matter-of-factly, pressing a finger to Hermione's lips to stop her from retorting. "And judging by the difference in how you're carrying yourself now that you look ravishing, I'd say you agree that this is better."

"How is having me look 'ravishing' necessary for your plan?" she badgered him, waving her arm wildly to demonstrate her confusion. The motion gave her a blast of the perfume that the women had spritzed on her and Hermione almost swooned. She hadn't noticed it before, but it was so light and crisp...so unlike the perfume of the girl in the magical shop. Even her perfume was sophisticated now.

They came to stop in front of a tall building that had a dark red awning, a carpet, and a doorman. She could not see inside the vestibule, but even the outside of the building was artful, done in the elaborate architectural style of art-nouveau. Hermione's love of art and history nearly overpowered her and she almost forgot about her debacle with Tom as she gazed up at the building in delight.

"Because while they say that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, the truth is that hell hath no fury like a jealous, old, fat woman with a young gazelle thrust in her face. Ah, here we are," Tom said cheerfully. "Je suis Thomas Riddle," he greeted the doorman smoothly. With a nod as though he had been expecting them, the doorman opened the door graciously with a bow, and Tom led her inside. Who were they meeting at a place like this, and _why_?


	40. 40: A Beautiful Mind

Bad Romance

Author's Note: Sorry this took so long. I had it written a couple nights ago, decided it was all wrong and, as this chapter is so pivotal (and I think you all will enjoy it) I felt it deserved to be well-written.

Chapter Forty: A Beautiful Mind

Hermione was led by Tom inside the grand hotel. As soon as they stepped over the threshold, it was a relief to be in the pleasant warmth, and out of the freezing wet air. The scent of lilies hung in the air; elegant vases seemed to house them on every surface. A bank of elevators lay across plush red carpeting, with wrought iron cagelike doors. The walls and floors not covered with the carpeting were of marble that occasionally caught light from the delicate crystal chandeliers and sparkled subtly.

"It's beautiful in here," Hermione breathed. Another man in uniform was approaching them and Tom nudged her.

"Act like you're used to it," he instructed in a low voice. Hermione raised her brow at him but said nothing more. What could Tom possibly have in store for them? As the hotel employee met up with them, he took their coats with a low bow. Tom casually slipped him a few francs and then returned his hand to the small of Hermione's back. The man who had taken their coats gestured for them to follow, and their shoes clacked along the marble as they were led along the well-lit hall. The smell of lilies was becoming almost too much for Hermione now, and she was grateful when carved, gilded doors were opened at the end of the hall, leading to an enormous ballroom with blessedly fresh air. It was being used as a dining room, it seemed, with dozens of little circular tables, most of which were occupied. A virtuoso violinist was off to the side, wearing a tux and serenading the diners. The room seemed to glitter and sparkle endlessly, the air filled with the hum of low French conversation and the mix of expensive French perfume.

When Hermione and Tom stepped in, Hermione could not help but notice how many sets of eyes turned to stare at them. She caught their reflection in the mirrored walls at the other end of the room and felt herself glow with pleasure. Had she been an onlooker, she would have been filled with envy. Tom, in his gleaming, dark, angular beauty, was stunning as always. He radiated a cool confidence that men his age did not usually possess. As for her...she had never looked so stylish and elegant in her life.

"Ah, there they are," he said, and pressed his hand harder at the small of Hermione's back to lead her forward. She shot him a private glower.

"Paws off, Riddle," she ordered under her breath. Tom winked at her slyly.

"You ought to wear corsets more often, darling. Your backside has never looked quite so inviting." With a well-timed stomp to Tom's instep that had his eyes watering in pain, Hermione allowed herself to be led across the room, her eyes sweeping over the diners. Who could Tom want to visit _here_?

"Mrs. Black! Mr. Black," Tom called as they reached the far end of the room. A striking witch with brown eyes and black wavy hair pulled into a loose chignon looked up from her lunch; a handsome wizard with heavy-lidded eyes and dark, sleek hair followed suit. Another woman sat at their table, and though Hermione had never before seen her in her life, she knew instantly who she was. The yellow silk and frothy lace billowing dress, the garish red updo, and the enormous limbs like sides of beef were all very familiar to Hermione.

"Oh, Tom, do call me Irma," the witch clipped, rising and allowing Tom to take her hand and plant a kiss on it. "Pollux, you recall Alphard's friend, of course," she said flatly, turning to her husband. _So this is Alphard's mother_. Despite being quite a beautiful woman, Irma Black had a villainous look about her that set Hermione on edge. Pollux Black had obviously given Bellatrix her notable eyes and Hermione's scar seemed to tingle as she looked on. "What brings you to Paris, Tom? I had no idea you would be here," Irma continued. "And who is this young lady?" she asked as her eyes alighted on Hermione.

"This is Hermione Macmillan, my girlfriend," Tom explained in a syrupy sweet tone. Hermione did not miss how resentful of Hermione both Irma Black and her guest seemed to be. "She's at the top of our year at Hogwarts, and she's new."

"Macmillan...not a familiar wizarding name," Irma commented snidely, looking at Hermione with the slightest hint of a sneer.

"My family comes from America, but I was raised in Surrey," Hermione lied quickly, though her cheeks heated. She already despised this woman, and her heart ached for Alphard, who had had to be raised by such a demoness. No wonder he was such a conflicted young man.

"Ah. How unusual. Well, any friend of Tom's is a friend of ours." Her tone did not match the sentiment in her words. Irma turned to the other witch at the table. "And this is our dear friend, Hepzibah Smith. She collects..." Irma paused, her dark eyes flicking to the Muggles around them.

"Antiques, Irma," Hepzibah supplied with a hearty chuckle, many chins wobbling, patting her tiny mouth with her napkin. As she did, a smear of garish red lipstick came away on the napkin.

"Enchante, Mrs. Smith," Tom said as he effortlessly took Hepzibah's hand and kissed it. The fat witch gave an oddly girlish giggle that resonated in the room. Irma made a great show of wincing at the noise.

"Oh, silly boy. Do join us," Hepzibah urged, spraying bits of eggs benedict as she waved her hand at Tom. Tom turned to Irma.

"Please do," Irma agreed, and a waiter hurriedly drew up two chairs for Hermione and Tom, with Tom seated next to Hepzibah and Hermione next to Irma. "You never told us how you found us here, Tom." Irma clapped her hands after speaking and ordered champagne for both Hermione and Tom.

"Hermione and I came here as a sort of daytrip, to attend the opera. It's her favorite," Tom explained. "And we were telling Alphard of our plans and he had mentioned you were coming here, Mrs. Black."

"Strange. I don't recall telling Alphard about our trip to Paris," said Irma thoughtfully. She shook her head. "That boy...perhaps you could talk some sense into him, Tom. Cygnus was telling me he's after a girl rumored to be a Mudblood."

Pollux and Hepzibah both choked on their food; Hermione nearly snapped the delicate stem of her champagne glass in her rage.

"A Mudblood, Irma? Surely you jest. Alphard always struck me as the intelligent one of your children," Hepzibah said in horror. "Not that Walburga and Cygnus aren't just as—"

"Oh, Alphard's certainly the brightest of them," Irma interrupted casually. "But where does he put that brainpower? Towards academics? No. Towards making use of his fabulous connections? No. Where does he put that brainpower? Quidditch and tail. _Mudblood_ tail. Disgusting."

Hermione thought she might throw up. Tom, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying himself greatly.

"I think he's given up on that girl," he said apologetically. There was a strange twisting sensation in Hermione's stomach. "You needn't worry about Alphard."

"Thank Merlin. We'll set him up with a proper girl, like your Hermione. I'm sure your blood's pure, young lady? I can't imagine our Tom accepting anything less," Hepzibah said, pointing her sherry at Hermione. She felt Tom nudge her leg with his knee.

"Oh, of course, Mrs. Smith," she gushed, though her voice was trembling. She had to blink rapidly to staunch the hot tears forming in her eyes. It didn't matter that she had heard the term 'Mudblood' before. It didn't matter that it was just a word. It didn't matter that she had had it carved into her arm. She would _never_ get used to hearing it for as long as she lived. "But enough about me. Do tell me about your antiques," Hermione changed the subject hastily. Hepzibah gave another shrill giggle.

"Hepzibah has opened her home to some of the most powerful and rare Dark magic items the world has ever seen," Irma explained in a whisper, leaning close to Hermione. "She'll never say for sure _what_ it is she's got her fat paws on, but rumor has it she's gotten ahold of Hufflepuff's cup, and is working on tracking down a locket belonging to Salazar Slytherin originally."

Hermione glanced at Tom: as she had expected, there was a curious gleam in his eyes, and for a moment, the charming facade had vanished. In its place she had seen a peek of a darker, more sinister Tom Riddle: the real Tom Marvolo Riddle...or rather, Lord Voldemort himself. Then it was gone, and he was back to being a charming, witty, devilishly handsome young man. Hermione shivered. It was a disturbing sight, yet it was sort of the same as looking under a rock and seeing all of the gruesome little creatures hidden underneath. She wished not to see it, and yet, it was hard to tear her eyes away. She wanted to look under the rock again.

"Slytherin's locket? Impressive," Tom said. Hepzibah was busying herself with guzzling more sherry and gazing longingly at Tom. Irma scoffed.

"It's a shame we must dine with her, but when you see another of our kind amongst the Muggles, you can't exactly _ignore_ them, can you? We came here to find Walburga's wedding robes, and decided to make a holiday of it. Of course, Walburga wanted to run around Muggle Paris with Orion, and left us here."

Hermione was rather impressed that Irma could summon any disdain towards their current surroundings, as she had never seen anything more opulent or elegant in her life. Still, she recalled she was supposed to be playing a part as the perfect pure blood fiance, and so took up the conversation as Tom subtly turned to Hepzibah, presumably to goad her into dropping some hints about her fabulous possessions.

"I've always had a strange attraction towards the Opera, even though it is regrettably Muggle," Hermione confided. "We don't have anything like it in the Wizarding world, and it's a bit of an embarrassment. I'm lucky that Tom is so open-minded." Her own words were coppery on her tongue, but she thought it best to play along as a fellow Muggle-hater. Irma let out a callous laugh, reminiscent of Alphard's.

"Oh, we all have our flaws, dear. Now, I presume you're in Slytherin—" they were interrupted by another shriek of laughter from Hepzibah, and she had brought out a lace fan to cool her face.

"Tom, you cad!" Hepzibah reprimanded with a piercing giggle. Tom's lips curled in a mischievous smirk; he was leaning intimately towards Hepzibah._ He really does know how to make the most of what he's got,_ Hermione thought as she watched him charm Hepzibah. Irma and Pollux settled into a murmured conversation, occasionally casting disgusted looks at Hepzibah.

Even watching Tom drink was captivating; watching him hold a champagne flute made her thoughts descend into a more carnal nature. Hermione had to gulp down more champagne to hide her blush. _You told yourself you wouldn't think these thoughts anymore_, she reminded herself. But it was hard to listen to her inner voice as she listened to Tom bantering with Hepzibah. He could charm anyone without any effort. It was amazing, how he could so quickly glean people's weaknesses, how he could reach a deep understanding of someone in a matter of minutes.

With all of his assessments of her, she felt like he had understood her better than anyone else she had ever known. Not to say he understood her in a way that implied a connection, but as though he had seen a textbook chapter on her deepest secrets of her soul. It was as though upon meeting, he had x-rayed her heart.

Perhaps it was this that continued to truly draw her to him so magnetically: no matter what, he could predict her and outsmart her every time, and that was, for Hermione Granger, a truly rare wonder. No man had ever consistently outsmarted her—except for, perhaps, Dumbledore—and while it was maddening, it was also attracting. She watched him charm secrets out of Hepzibah, and she could only feel pity and empathy for the hideous old woman. She knew how it felt, to have this beautiful man seemingly understand her in ways that she might feel no one else ever had.

Tom broke away from his conversation with Hepzibah to chat with Irma for a bit; he rested his hand over Hermione's on the table, and Hermione marveled at how both Irma and Hepzibah watched the motion closely. Hermione's skin grew warm at the contact; beneath the table she felt his knee graze hers.

She had not forgotten their recent interactions—in fact they were burned into her brain. Therefore, the feel of his knee against hers packed extra power, and images assaulted her brain. Her mouth went dry, though she had finished her flute of champagne and could not remedy the issue. She looked to Tom, and for the briefest moment, he broke his eye contact with Irma to glance at her. She could not read his expression, but it made chills run down her spine.

After what seemed hours, Tom jumped up, with some excuse about being late for the opera ready. They left the table with hugs and kisses from Irma and Pollux and an invite from Hepzibah: it was clearly meant exclusively for Tom and the fact that Hepzibah was jealous of Hermione made her smirk to herself. Tom led her away from the table, his hand so low on her back that it was nearing indecent, and she knew it was driving the two older witches mad to see it.

"That was...eventful," Hermione said when they stepped out into the lily-infused hall again, donning their coats. Tom laughed darkly.

"It's about to get more eventful. Come, let's explore," he said, taking her hand and leading her towards the bank of elevators. He told the bellboy a floor number and the grate slid shut; Hermione both wished he would and yet wouldn't let go of her hand. She felt unsteady on her heels from the champagne and wished to sit down. She had a bad feeling about this 'exploring' and felt it a poor choice to follow Tom somewhere with alcohol—however little—in her system.

They reached their destination, and Tom led Hermione out of the elevator and down the hall. This hall was lined with glittering crystal sconces and white wallpaper with tiny golden fleur-du-lis dotting it that occasionally caught the light of the paper. _We must be breaking into Hepzibah Smith's room,_ Hermione thought as she trotted after Tom. Normally she might have been worried, but she knew the outcome of this: Tom would not gain the locket or the cup until years from now; he would not find anything in Hepzibah's room.

As expected, they stopped in front of a bead-board door and Tom, hardly bothering with glancing around for Muggles, whipped out his wand, muttered _alohomora_, and pushed eagerly inside the room.

"Missus Smith?" a house-elf was waiting by the window. "You isn't my mistress," the little elf said with uncertainty. It was clear she was an elderly house-elf. Hermione was horrified at the idea of a house-elf being locked inside a hotel room all day, but at least, as far as hotel rooms went, this was not a bad one to be stuck inside.

"Accio Locket," Tom said, ignoring the house-elf.

"Tom, you can't just steal—" she was cut off when Tom slammed the door shut and pressed her against the wall, his wand at her throat.

"Do not try to thwart me, Hermione," he warned in a low, dangerous voice. Hermione did not allow herself to tremble in fear as she stared defiantly back at him. With his shoulder still pinning her against the wall, Tom raised his wand again. "Accio Locket," he said louder this time. It did not appear. "Accio Slytherin's Locket."

"Do you really think it would be that easy? Why would she bring the locket with her to Paris, anyway?" Hermione asked dryly. Tom stepped away and she massaged her ribcage.

"Well, now you know what I'm after," he finally said. "Perhaps now you can share with me how you really got that funny little scar you have, as I have allowed you a glimpse of my own secrets." He turned to her and Hermione's heart began to pound. She needed to buy herself time; think of a convincing cover story. She licked her lips in thought, but when she realized Tom's eyes had followed the motion, her palms began to sweat.

"N-not here," she stammered. Tom smirked at her.

"Fine. We'll just find an empty room," he said simply, opening the door for her. "After you. Oh, and..." he turned back to the house-elf. "Obliviate."

It was too late to stop him, obviously, and Hermione was in enough trouble of her own to bother arguing with Tom about Obliviating Hepzibah's house-elf. Once in the hall, Tom strolled along it until he found a room at the very end of the hall. It was unlocked. Inside it was evidently a vacant room. It was beautiful, as Hepzibah's had been. Inside, he used a locking charm on it ,and turned to Hermione. "Well?"

They stood staring at each other by the door; eventually Hermione felt too unsteady in her heels and she walked to the bed and sat on the edge, staring out the balcony at the grey Paris street. She felt Tom pace along the room to stand beside her and also stare out the window. _Think. What could he believe and not argue with?_

"Grindelwald supporters. My parents are dead because of them." Hermione dredged up the emotion as she recalled the powerful memory charm she had used on her parents. They may as well have been dead. Tears slipped down her cheeks. "My boyfriend is dead because of them." Ron's blue eyes. "My best friend is dead because of them. I'm the only one left." In truth it was the fault of the man standing beside her that these things had happened, and as she recalled how it felt to sit on the couch in the common room, quashed in between Harry and Ron, tears began streaming down her cheeks in earnest. She wiped them away hastily and glanced at Tom. Had he bought it?

He was staring at her curiously now and once again she had the sensation that he could size her up, cut her soul up into neat portions, condense who she was easily and without effort or error. How could eyes that could see right through her so completely fail at seeing love? How could a man of such brilliance, capable of understanding the most complex people in an instant, could not understand real love? Hermione stared back at Tom, knowing he was attempting to use Legilimency on her. And all he would find, she knew, was his own wavering dark reflection in her eyes.

Lord Voldemort was, really, ultimately a great tragedy.

"You're rather good at Occlumency now. It is infuriating," Tom said finally, his voice cold. "You are the only woman who has never surrendered to me," he continued, turning again to stare outside at the icy world below. "You never do what I say, you never follow directions. You just run away or resist me."

"You are the only man who has ever really understood me," Hermione parried softly, knowing it would confuse him. She was right: Tom stiffened slightly. "But I think you enjoy that I don't do what you say. I think you enjoy the chase."

"Correct. It will make victory all the sweeter," Tom agreed evenly. He shrugged out of his wool coat and set it on a chair.

"Victory?"

He turned to her, a wicked grin in place as he loosened his tie.

"When I fuck your brains out, knowing that you attempted for so long to push yourself away will make it all the more enjoyable for me."

It was difficult to keep her cool at language like that. Hermione swallowed and looked away, her cheeks aflame. "Oh, I apologize. Are we still pretending you'll never give in?" he asked silkily.

"What if I run away or resist you again?" she asked finally, chancing a glance at him. Tom was shrugging off the jacket of his suit.

"Unlikely. The look you gave me this afternoon after I touched your hand was decidedly wanton. You were thinking dirty thoughts at that moment about me."

"W-was not," Hermione protested immediately, rising to her feet at once. Unfortunately she twisted on the heel of her shoe and stumbled forward into Tom's arms. He chuckled and tightened his hold on her when she attempted to pull away.

"You're attracted to me, to my brilliance. You appreciate the fact that I can work for something that I want. Above all, you want a man who will place his hand far too low on your back, even when you scold him. You want a man who can appreciate a beautiful young woman in a black dress and heels."

"Well, you're attracted to my brilliance, you appreciate—but fear—the fact that I see through your bullshit charm and wit, and above all, you want a woman who will never make it easy for you. You want a woman who will never follow your directions," Hermione retorted hotly, pushing away from Tom. For once, he looked genuinely surprised.

"You're getting quite good at this, Hermione, go on," he goaded, walking towards her until the bed hit the back of her knees. Hermione tottered on her feet as she tried to avoid falling backwards. Feeling reckless, and perhaps a bit pleased at her victory, Hermione pushed at Tom's chest, forcing him to step backwards. She had anticipated that he might grasp her wrists, but instead his beautiful lips curved into that grin that she so relished as he allowed her to push him back—slightly. A lock of bushy hair had fallen free from her chignon and fell in her face as she pushed on Tom's chest, forcing him to back into the gleaming mahogany desk. It had a radio and a black telephone on it, with a large, gilded mirror behind it. She saw their reflection: Tom's svelte shoulders, his tie tossed casually over them, and her mussed hair and red cheeks and lips. Warmth rippled through her as she looked up at Tom.

"Because I'm a Mudblood, you're disgusted by me," she continued, gaining momentum. "Yet you've met your match in me. And a match of intellect, wit, and skill has always been your deepest desire for a mate. You can't reconcile these two sides of your attraction for me."

"Because you probably have had a history of poor, fumbling romances, you're scared of what will come of being with me," Tom replied darkly. "But you're drawn to the idea of a man who would know exactly where and how to touch you, because it's something you've never considered for yourself. Because you consider yourself ugly and bookish, you ruled out the idea of a magnificent sex life from day one."

"You find the fact that I'm a prude intriguing," Hermione countered immediately, noting how they were standing unbearably close to each other. "And the fact that my past is as ambiguous and murky as yours puts us on common ground."

"I'd have to teach you everything," Tom said, "because your past experiences were probably pathetic."

"But you'd enjoy having to tell me what to do, and you'd enjoy even more when I would not follow directions."

Their eyes met, and Hermione knew this was the end of the rope. She should have been more upset about it, but as Tom was giving her a dar, seductive look, she could not find it in herself to care. It was time to stop pretending, simply because she could not pretend any longer. The funny thing was, neither could he.

And somehow their lips met again. Hermione gripped on Tom's tie for support as his fingers dug into her sides, running up her spine and removing the pins holding her hair in its chignon. This time, they both knew, was different. There would be no running away, there would be no resistance. She belonged to him, and him alone.

Coming from another room, Hermione faintly registered that someone was listening to the opera on the radio, and as she sank against Tom's hard frame, she could pick out the notes of the aria from Samson et Delila: mon cœur c'ouvre à ta voix.

_Ah, réponds à ma tendresse_

_Verse-moi, verse-moi l'ivresse..._

* * *

><p><strong>IMPORTANT: Check my new lj for the rest of this scene. It'll be up later on. Link is on my profile. Click responsibly. <strong>


	41. 41: Every Breath You Take

Bad Romance

Author's Note: For those of you who haven't seen it, **the LJ scene is up. Linky is on the profile**. In general, I plan to continue posting the scenes that would get me banned from FFnet as well as scenes that didn't get used and other bits and pieces from this story, so stay tuned if you're into that kind of stuff.

I've been itching to write a TMRJR/HG/HP fic. I wrote a oneshot of them that needs reworking, but I might just save it and turn it into a chaptered fic. It feels too big for a oneshot, somehow. Anyone interested? I know it's a really weird pairing….but HG/HP is actually my original OTP from harry potter. Weird, no? But ever since I was little, I always resented hermione and ron together. As the books progressed, it became clear that, even without Ron, Harry and Hermione weren't meant for each other, but I still sort of cling to it.

Chapter Forty One: Every Breath You Take

Reality was sobering and chilly. Tom sat up; Hermione was amazed by how entirely ravaged he looked. Little bruises dotted his neck—had she really done that?—and his hair had never looked so messy and wild. She actually preferred it this way; she loved how it looked to see him wipe sweat from his brow as he stared down at her. She lay on the bed, paralyzed by his eyes. His stare was penetrating; she closed her mind abruptly.

"Damn. Even in the afterglow, you're still a rather accomplished Occlumens," he swore, pushing away from her and rising to his feet. His body was magnificent; for a moment Hermione pretended they were in love and she was watching her lover or future husband, naked, as he walked to the bathroom. She heard the sound of rushing water. Intellectually, she knew she had to pull herself together. Alphard was probably wondering where on earth she could possibly be. Yet her muscles felt weak, and guilt was settling in. She had given in.

But hadn't he, in a way? She was a Mudblood, after all. Knowing this, Hermione knew they were on the same page now, and it struck her as the right time to leave. She did not bother cleaning herself off as she yanked on the clothes that Tom had stolen. He came out of the bathroom, wearing his pants and pulling on his undershirt.

"I didn't know you were the type to love them and leave them," he teased. Hermione scoffed.

"I think it's better for both of our sanity if I just leave now," she said. She hastily pinned her hair back into its messy chignon as Tom watched, amused.

"Feeling guilty for handing your virginity over to a man who was not your ex-boyfriend?" he asked silkily as she yanked on her coat and withdrew her wand. Hermione stared at him hard.

"Feeling guilty for fucking a Mudblood so enthusiastically, and actually wanting to do it again?" she shot back. Tom's lips parted in surprise.

Apparently she had caught him off-guard, and she chose that moment to Apparate. But when she Apparated to her chosen spot, she had never expected to find anyone there waiting for her, let alone Garret Potter.

It was dark in Hogsmeade. Garret Potter was standing just out of the light coming from the windows of the pub behind them, and he was gripping something.

"Let me go!" the thing he had been gripping was a person; at first Hermione recognized the voice as Alphard's but she quickly realized, as the figure stumbled into the patch of light, that it was not Alphard, but his younger brother Cygnus. Cygnus's heavy-lidded eyes and close cropped hair were so brutal compared to Alphard's more boyish and pleasing features.

"There you are, Hermione," greeted Garret Potter pleasantly, as though she had joined him for high tea a few minutes late. He lazily flicked his wand and nonverbally cast _incarcerous. _Ropes twined around Cygnus Black's stocky form and, with a loud grunt, he toppled forward into the snow at Hermione's feet.

"G-garret," Hermione replied unsteadily, stepping instinctively away from Cygnus. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, just hanging round. I'm rather glad Albus asked me to stay a little longer before heading back to Germany, as I was able to spot this little punk. Unfortunately, his older brother—I'm sure you've met him: Alphard Black—is nowhere to be found. Silly little Cygnus here seems to be under the impression that his brother was due to meet you around here and contends that you're a scheming Mudblood. He was also rambling on about gaining Lord Voldemort's favor." Garret let out a long-suffering sigh and stepped forward, waving his wand and raising Cygnus up into the air. "Now, let's try this again, Cyggie: _what_ did you do to your brother?"

"N-nuffink!" Cygnus' voice was muffled by the snow and leaves caught in his mouth; he spit them out in Garret's direction and the Auror stepped back, a look of disgust etched on his handsome face.

"Right, and I'm a ballerina," he said sarcastically. Hermione was struck by how Geoffrey had once made a similar joke, but now was not the time to point it out. In Auror mode, Garret was a lot more intimidating. "I've been rather courteous with you, and yet you've been a complete prat. Did your mother teach you no manners? It's simply obscene. Don't you agree, Hermione?"

"I happened to meet his mother today, actually," Hermione confessed, matching Garret's expression of disdain. "I think the attitude runs in the family."

"Ah, well, that's too bad. I suppose we'll just have to teach you what your mother failed to teach you," Garret warned with a sigh. "I believe our first stop ought to be Professor Dumbledore. I just wanted to wait and see what you thought of this situation, Hermione, as you're the 'scheming Mudblood' here."

Hermione flinched at the word.

"Well, I have to wonder who Lord Voldemort is," she said quietly. "But I think I'll leave that to you and Dumbledore. Perhaps I ought to try and find Alphard."

"Yes, quite right, love," Garret agreed. "Owl me when you find him. Come, Cyggie, Albus and I want to have a little chat," he continued in a singsong voice, and turned, waving his wand. Cygnus bumped painfully along the ground.

"Ow! What'd you do that for?" he ground out. Hermione heard Garret chuckle.

"Sometimes the only way to teach someone not to use a word is to beat it out of them. I must inform you, 'Mudblood' is my least favorite word. Sort of like my feelings on the color chartreuse: it's just plain offensive and doesn't look good on _anyone_. My mother's particularly rabid about when people wear it; it's sort of amusing to watch her reaction to it."

Hermione fought back a giggle as she watched Garret lead the way back up the path to Hogwarts. Still, the humor of the situation was greatly overshadowed by the fear. What had happened to Alphard? With a sense of foreboding, Hermione ran up to her room; there was no point in attempting to search for Alphard in these ridiculous heels. She'd break her ankle in no time. Her heart rate accelerating with every step, Hermione unlocked her door and let out a scream when she found someone sitting on her bed.

_There_ was Alphard.

"You've been gone _ages_," he greeted, looking up from the book he was reading. Hermione squinted and recognized it as a tome on Dark Arts. Her stomach flipped and with a trembling hand, she shut the door. Now that she was in an enclosed space, she was confronted by the fact that she may as well have attached a banner advertising that she had lost her virginity not fifteen minutes ago. The scent of sex lingered on her skin, mixed with Tom's aftershave and her own floral perfume. She was also not wearing underwear, and while this had not been an issue outside in the dark, she was conscious of the lingering wetness running down her leg. Her cheeks flushed as she stared at Alphard, wondering if he had picked up on the scent. She had never anticipated getting caught in a situation like this. The way Alphard was looking at her told her he had not likely realized anything yet. "Why are you wearing those clothes?" he asked curiously, narrowing his eyes at her. Hermione licked her dry lips.

"It's a long story. M-mind if I just…use the loo real quick? I'll be right out," she said unsteadily. Alphard gave a one-shouldered shrug and Hermione hastened to fetch some fresh clothing from her trunk before ducking into her bathroom. When she locked the door, she turned to the mirror and nearly gasped aloud. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair looked like she'd been attacked. When she shrugged off her black Muggle dress and complicated lingerie, she hastened to do her best of neatening herself up, though she knew she would be wearing turtlenecks for quite a while, considering the bruises and nicks along her flesh. Without thinking about it too much, she shoved the clothing into the shower and hid it behind the curtain. She'd deal with it later.

When she reentered the room, Alphard had stretched himself out on her bed and was staring up at the ceiling, whistling to himself.

"Glad to see you've made yourself comfortable," she said dryly. Alphard shot her a grin.

"I've been here a while. I hate to intrude, but when my little brother came after me with some choice Hexes, I had nowhere else to hide. I promise I didn't go poking through your things; I know you Aurors are a secretive bunch. Good thing that Garret Potter showed up."

"Yes, it is a good thing," Hermione agreed. After what had just passed with Tom, she disliked the idea of sitting on the bed with Alphard, and instead drew her chair out from her desk and sat in it primly. Alphard propped himself up on his elbows, his expression one of injury.

"What, do I smell or something?" he joked. Hermione scoffed and shook her head.

"Sorry, Alphard, but to me sitting on a bed with a boy means something," she explained. She was prepared for Alphard to question her further on that one, but when he didn't, she took her cue and delved into an _edited _version of the day's events. She had been unsure of how much to include Alphard on the Horcruxes, but eventually determined he was likely to find all of this out from Tom anyway.

"Slytherin's locket? Why's he after a piece of jewelry?" Alphard asked in disgust, after Hermione had related the events. Feigning ignorance, she shrugged.

"He didn't tell me. After we broke into Hepzibah's hotel room, I decided I had had enough, and Apparated." But Alphard was looking at her shrewdly, and it made her nervous.

"Forgive me if I don't fully believe you," he replied. "But Hermione, I don't see you as giving up that easily."

"Why not? I didn't want to question him fully; it'd look suspicious. I figured I'd tell you and then plan our next move." Her palms were beginning to sweat from the way Alphard was eying her.

"You're lying," he said flatly. He rose and walked to stand in front of her, and crouched down so they were eye-level. "When you came in here, you smelled like_ him_."

"Well, I spent the day with him, and with the way he drowns himself in aftershave—" Hermione began bossily, but Alphard pressed a finger to her lips.

"He doesn't drown himself in aftershave. You'd have to be very close to him to smell like it," he said somberly. "I'm not stupid, no matter how much of a prat you and Tom both seem to think I am."

"I don't think you're a prat," Hermione protested, her cheeks reddening. Alphard's eyes narrowed.

"Then why do you always lie to me? You tell me the flimsiest excuses. If you don't like me…" he began and trailed off. Hermione looked down at her hands.

"I _do _like you, Alphard. But you're right: I haven't been honest with you. I haven't been honest with myself, either. Tom had something over me, and now, I'm done with him. But accordingly, I think we should just agree to halt any attempts at a romance, because it isn't fair to you."

Alphard's jaw dropped.

"You had sex with him," he confirmed, disbelief evident in his wide eyes. He stood abruptly, mopping his face with his hand, and turned away. "Fine. I guess that makes this easier, then. Takes feelings out of the equation and all. Fine. Whatever."

Hermione had never felt more wretched in her life; she did not bother trying to convince him otherwise. To give him any sliver of hope at this point would have been unkind. While she did like Alphard, she had just given herself to another man. She felt wretched enough to be prepared to swear off sex for the rest of her life. She simply remained in the chair, staring at her hands, as Alphard paced across the room, away from her. "So, what's our next move?" He felt very far away.

"Wait until your next meeting with him, and see what he says. In the meantime, I think you ought to learn Occlumency. If he finds out that we're working against him, we're in trouble. I know he's a rather accomplished Legilimens," Hermione said with forced calmness. When Alphard turned to look at her again, his eyes were flinty and hard.

"Yeah, you're right. And you should find out what happened with Cygnus and Potter; I'll get the story from Cygnus one way or another, but I know you're chummy with Potter."

"Right. Good plan."

For a moment, they lapsed into painful, excruciating silence. Finally, Alphard left without bidding her goodbye, his cloak swishing before he slammed her door shut.

Hermione was wracked with pain and conflict. She would have thought that finally having sex with Tom might bring her relief, and for a few moments, it had. But now she was so contorted with guilt that it was hard to think straight. All of this, _all_ of it, was because of Tom Riddle. She was desperate to act against him, to hurt him as he had, however indirectly, hurt her. She refused to take responsibility for her own part in it; that would come later, when she had calmed down a bit. For now, Hermione wrapped herself in her heaviest cloak and, eyes surprisingly dry, Apparated to Little Hangleton.

Little Hangleton was frigid and nearly pitch-black in the night. Shivering, Hermione ran through the snow towards the Gaunt shack, filled with purpose.

Inside the shack, the wind howled and shrieked through every aperture. With trembling hands, Hermione located a fork on the table and Transfigured it into a black and gold ring, identical to Marvolo's ring. She felt around the dust and snow-covered floorboards for the loose one and located the black and gold box that Harry had described the ring as being housed in. After checking to be sure that the rings looked identical, she cursed the fake ring. She'd already looked up the proper curse, and was filled with both accomplishment and dread when she set the fake ring inside the box. Attempting to hide all signs of having been there, Hermione covered her tracks, and, careful to avoid letting the ring slip on her fingers—for that was how the curse would be activated—she went outside into the icy howling winds. She had a basilisk fang hidden in her beaded bag, and, feeling sentimental in a distorted manner, Apparated across the town into the Riddle mansion. She thought it only right that the Horcrux be destroyed where it had been created. She found the sitting room and, careful to not make too much noise so as not to alert Frank Bryce to her presence, set the ring on the rug. She was prepared for whatever the ring might throw at her, but when she stabbed it with the basilisk fang, little more than the increased howling and shrieking of the wind occurred. Perhaps the ring itself had shrieked, but due to the intense snowstorm, its screams were lost in the night. Shaken and covered in cold perspiration, Hermione took the cracked stone with her and hid it in her beaded bag, along with the basilisk fang.

_One Horcrux, down, _she thought with a feeling of exhilaration. The deed had made her former feelings of guilt ebb slightly, providing her with some relief. She Disapparated back to Hogsmeade, beaming. It made up for her dilemma with Alphard, for certain. Hopefully eventually they could move past his jealousy and hurt. While she knew she had done wrong, she also knew that she had not led him on, and his feelings were entirely his own doing….just as hers were. When she returned to the Hog's Head, she owled Garret and Albus, and then slipped into her bed, ready to drift off to dreamland. Tomorrow she would be returning to the castle, and she was eager to see her friends again.

Still, as she lay there, sleep would not come, for memories of that afternoon in Paris returned to her in graphic detail. She unwittingly relived the afternoon several times over, until it was nearly dawn and she was still filled with frustration. She had thought one time was all it would take for her desire for Tom Riddle to subside, but somehow, as she lay in her little bed, staring at the ceiling much as Alphard had done hours before, she felt she had never been more frustrated in her life. Hermione had never guessed she might feel this way about losing her virginity…or that it would occur in this way. Her center ached from the act but now it ached for another reason as well. She had to admit that she still wanted Tom…perhaps more than she had before.

* * *

><p>After Hermione had left, Tom had stood at the window, staring out at the streets in Paris, lost in thought. It had taken longer than he had expected to locate all of his various items of clothing from around the room, and when he had found the torn peach silk of Hermione's panties, his arousal had returned abruptly. Discarding the underwear, he decided it was an appropriate time to take his leave, for the longer he spent in the hotel room, the more memories of what had passed between him and the Gryffindor Mudblood assaulted his mind's eye. He despised how the sight of the pale scar spelling out her blood status was possibly the most erotic thing he had ever seen; he despised that, in spite of having had her, he still wanted more. Above all he despised the fact that she had been the one to leave first, and not him. It wounded his pride, and generally angered him. Did she really think she could have the last laugh? She, a pathetic Mudblood? What a fool he had been, to rest back on his laurels and assume he had had the upper hand all along. Hermione was a smarter witch than he had given her credit for, and really, the only solution was to prove who truly was in charge.<p>

But that was for a later date: he still had to recommence his planning. Meeting with Hepzibah had not been quite as fruitful as he would have liked, though having Hermione there had certainly helped. He had dropped enough subtle hints to the enormous old witch that his relationship with Hermione was at a crossroads, and he hoped that would motivate Hepzibah to take a more active role in inviting him to see her treasures…though, hopefully not her bodily 'treasures.'

When Tom returned to Hogsmeade, he glanced up at Hermione's window, but it was dark. Where had she gone? He considered waiting for her to return, but deemed it too likely to make her feel empowered in their dynamic. Instead, he returned to the castle, though as he lay in bed, in his suite, he thought of Hermione Macmillan, and how he might go about possessing her again, and could concentrate on little else.


	42. 42: Valse de Cygnes

Bad Romance

Author's Note: I feel so blessed to have such awesome readers/reviewers especially during such a difficult time in my life. Seriously, you guys rock. Please continue to leave such awesome and helpful reviews. They really lift my spirits!

This chapter is a little bit different from my usual m.o. Hope you guys like it.

Also, I think after BR is done (hopefully within a month) I'll start on that TMR/HP/HG fic I mentioned. I've written quite a bit for it and I'm getting into it. Muahahaha. Funny, I never was interested in writing for the HP fandom before, but now it takes up most of my fanfic energies. I'm also working on a HG/CW oneshot...what is wrong with me? Meanwhile seeing my ex on campus everywhere is incredibly painful and confusing. So I turn my thoughts to fandom in the hopes of distracting myself. So far, it is working. Let's hope it keeps working until this problem passes me by.

Chapter Forty Two: Valse de Cygnes

Tom had finally drifted off when he was awoken by a knock on his window; an owl was tapping on it. It was a message from Lestrange, as it turned out. Blearily Tom waved his yew wand and the window latch lifted, allowing the barn owl inside his room. It hooted softly and dropped a scrap of parchment onto his lap before swooping back out of the room.

_The younger Black is being detained in Dumbledore's office. Insists Alphard is meeting the Macmillan girl in secret, also insists the Macmillan girl is a mudblood. We await for your orders, my lord. _

Rubbing his eyes as he woke slowly, Tom sat up, clutching the slip of parchment. When he finally had awoken enough to process it, he closed his long fingers around the message, crumpling the fresh parchment into a little ball. He rose from his bed and cast a fire in his fireplace: when the flames roared high and emerald, he hurled the parchment into the fire with all his might. It wasn't the fact that the idiotic little Cygnus had gotten caught that angered him, it was the fact that he'd been seeing the Mudblood in question in his dreams all night thus far. He tired of the image of that scar, such an aphrodisiac for him. It angered him, it humiliated him. Now he had to be confronted with the issue again and he was not pleased. Lord Voldemort let out a roar of anger in his suite, hurling more things round his suite into the emerald fire.

When at last he had calmed down, he thought of his pet hidden in the depths of Hogwarts. A wicked grin curved his pale lips. He had power over her still, power that even she did not know of. Perhaps unleashing that power on her was the only way to calm his tortured mind.

* * *

><p>Alphard sat in the Slytherin common room, staring into the flames of the fireplace, as was his custom. There was something utterly relaxing about sitting by a fire late into the night, and he let his thoughts flicker like the flames in front of him. It was blessedly empty, for which he was grateful, as, given his mental state, Alphard was not sure he could handle dealing with his fellow Knights...and especially not Lord Voldemort, or rather Tom Riddle, himself. He'd seen Riddle go to bed earlier, so he was safe here in the common room, at least for a bit. Any time he thought of Riddle, the flames of jealousy in his heart surged higher. At this moment, he despised Hermione Macmillan, and he despised Tom Riddle. Above all, he despised himself for allowing himself to fall into this absurd little triangle. Clearly there was no room for him in Hermione's life except professionally, and while Alphard knew this on an intellectual level, it was damn near impossible to accept that Hermione, for all intents and purposes, belonged to Riddle.<p>

_Just like every other damned thing_, he thought angrily, clenching his fists. He wasn't one to hold onto anger, and he certainly wasn't one to hold onto feelings for some girl. But Hermione wasn't just 'some girl', and he knew she had done her best to avoid leading him on. No, his predicament was no one's fault but his own. Still that did not mend the hurt that dwelled so deep within him.

"Ah, Black, you're back," a cold voice broke the peaceful quiet of the room. Alphard flinched, having been startled. Tom Riddle had emerged from his suite, fully dressed, though it was approaching dawn and still quite dark outside. "I heard Cygnus got caught in a bit of trouble with an Auror," he added conversationally, coming to stand in front of Alphard. Alphard knew Riddle expected a proper bow, but Alphard was still too filled with hatred for Riddle. As he tore his eyes away from the flames, he met Riddle's dark, unreadable eyes. _'He knows Legilimency'_ warned Hermione's soft, worried voice in his head. Alphard broke eye contact immediately. Once in a while, before, he had felt a peculiar sensation when looking into Riddle's eyes: as though his mind was being sifted through, pushed about. Now he knew why, and he despised Tom all the more for it. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?" Riddle's voice was dangerously soft now; Alphard was aware of his wand tucked inside his robes. Luckily, his reflexes were naturally pretty quick. He knew how Riddle could get, was well-acquainted with the Head Boy's temper. If he had to defend himself, he could, though Riddle's dueling skills were thus far unmatched, save for Hermione. But Hermione was no longer here, and now Alphard was, in a sense, cornered. He ought to have given in to Riddle's questioning, but he was still too angry.

"Nope. I wouldn't," he said shortly. He rose to head back to his dormitory, but as he brushed past Riddle, the end of the yew wand prodded his cheek. Riddle stood inches from him; Alphard could smell the scent of Hermione's skin on him and he nearly saw red. He faced away, his body perpendicular to Riddle's, the wandtip pressing painfully hard into his cheek.

"Going somewhere? You haven't even greeted me properly, Black. I'm not sure what's gotten into you. Sneaking off, giving Cygnus cause to worry..." the wand dug into his skin as it ran down to his chin and Riddle used it to tilt his head to face him slightly. For sure there would be a red mark there now. Alphard tried to avoid his eyes, but for an instant, they connected, and Alphard was privy to Riddle's Legilimency skills. "I see. I should have known. You're jealous." Riddle was clearly gloating. _Don't fall for it_, Alphard urged himself, and drew in a calming breath. _You're far cleverer than this._ His muscles relaxed and he unclenched his fists.

"Not really. Anyone can fuck a girl," he said plainly. Tom's wand was going to draw blood soon. "In fact, it's not even really a conquest, is it? Eventually everyone gives into physical urges."

"Interesting," Tom began softly, "What do you believe is the real challenge, then?"

Alphard considered this for a moment. He found himself grinning at Tom.

"If you can't see it, you've already lost her."

Tom withdrew his wand and Alphard stepped back, fighting the urge to rub his cheek.

"Very well. You might as well accompany me to the forest; there is business to be attended to before the term begins again." Alphard had not been expecting Tom to relent so easily and it set him on edge. Tom _never_ caved so quickly.

"Business, my lord?" he asked carefully, drawing his heavy traveling cloak tighter round his shoulders. They slipped out of the castle together. Wet snow was falling; the sky was tinged with the grapefruit pink of an approaching snowy dawn. The two Slytherins trekked through the slush towards the Forbidden Forest. Alphard did not miss the tracks along the ground. Perhaps the others were already there?

"You'll see, Black. Patience," said Lord Voldemort with a smirk. Deep in the forest, they were greeted by the usual suspects in a copse of jagged black trees; Alphard nearly gasped when he saw his brother standing in the center, looking down. Alphard held little affection for his brother, as Cygnus generally had the temperament expected of his family and heritage and it was one not agreeable with Alphard. Still, he feared what might befall his little brother. "Sorry we're late," Tom announced as all of the young men dropped into low bows, with Cygnus dropping to his hands and knees, even in the snow. His smaller form was trembling slightly.

"My Lord," he began in a whimper, but Avery kicked him in the jaw, sending him rolling along the ground. Alphard drew his wand.

"What is the meaning of this, my Lord?" he fought to keep his voice calm; showing his anger would not do, especially after how far he had stepped out of line in the common room. Tom scoffed as they watched Cygnus cough up blood and struggle to his knees.

"Blood-traitor! Sneak!" Cygnus bellowed, wiping the blood from the corners of his mouth. It dribbled down his chin and spotted the snow; Alphard's stomach turned at the sight. "That girl is a Mudblood. I've looked it up—her family name isn't a pureblood one. No one's ever heard of her. I saw you sneaking around to meet her," he accused wildly, a look of pure fanaticism in his eyes. Alphard had reached a fork in the road: either he could save his little brother and confess, and risk all kinds of hell for himself and Hermione, or he could deny it completely and allow Cygnus to be tortured. He could not come up with a way to save everyone.

"Enough, Black," Tom ordered in a high, cold voice that had everyone trembling. Imperiously he drew his yew wand, his long fingers wrapped around it. In the light of dawn, shadowed by trees, he looked like an angel of death. "I have questioned the Mudblood; there is no proof of your brother's contact with her. Not only that, but you have disobeyed me, and now the Auror Garret Potter questions who Lord Voldemort is." He stood over Cygnus' quivering little body like a stone statue in a cemetery.

"Y-you said that o-one day everyone would know and f-fear your name," Cygnus stammered, his voice having gone nasal from the blood in his mouth and nose. Tom laughed softly; it was like daggers through Alphard's very soul.

"I said one day, Black. _Not_ today. I had intended to reveal that name at a later date. Do you know what Legilimency is, you stupid boy?"

"N-no, my Lord."

"It is a powerful mind-reading spell, and all Aurors are required to know it. Most powerful wizards know it as well. Can you think of a powerful wizard that you have spoken with recently, other than me?"

"Dumbledore, my Lord?"

"Precisely." Tom caressed his wand thoughtfully, staring down his straight, aristocratic nose at Cygnus. "What do you suppose Dumbledore and Potter the Auror might find when they look into your pitifully small brain for anything concerning my true name?"

Cygnus merely let out a terrified squeal. Alphard had never seen his brother look more piteous in his life. Desperate to stop it, he stepped forward, but immediately Tom pressed the point of his wand into Alphard's chest.

"This is not the time for brotherly love, Black. Your brother has disobeyed me and has put us all in danger. You know the punishment for it."

"Forgive me, my lord, but he's thirteen." Alphard hated the way his voice trembled. Sparks shot out of Riddle's wand, scorching his robe and burning his skin. He sucked in air through his clenched teeth in pain, balling his sweaty palms into fists to try and cope with the searing pain.

"Avery, why don't you do the honors?" Riddle's voice had become cheerful. Gleefully Avery stepped forward, proclaiming it would be his honor. He pointed his wand at Cygnus' prone, cowering form. Alphard's mouth filled with bile as he watched his little brother whimper in fear, covering his head with his arms.

"If you try to step in, Little Cygnus won't even have a voicebox to scream with, Black," cackled Avery. He turned on Cygnus. "_Crucio_."

Alphard would not forget Cygnus' anguished screams that echoed throughout the forest for as long as he lived. Tom looked on, the hint of a smirk on his lips, as one Knight tortured the other. Even after Cygnus had screamed his throat raw, he continued to screech, until his voice was reduced to a pathetic rasping as he tossed and turned in agony on the forest floor. Not even the frigid snow could soothe his suffering. The young boy twitched and thrashed grotesquely, like a puppet on sinister strings.

"S-stop it," Alphard muttered to Tom. "Please. My Lord."

"Maybe this will make you think twice about contacting the Mudblood again," whispered Tom silkily. Everything clicked into place for Alphard. This was his fault. Certainly his brother had messed up, but this little display was more for Alphard's 'benefit' than for Cygnus'. He turned and vomited behind a tree, shaking. Finally, Avery lifted the Cruciatus Curse, and Cygnus went limp in the snow. The only sign of life was an occasional reflexive twitch.

After their gathering had ended, Alphard carried his brother's limp body to the Slytherin dormitories, and laid him down in his four poster. Tom's cruel, cold voice echoed in his mind: _'Maybe this will make you think twice about contacting the Mudblood again.'_ Alphard wanted more than anything to see Hermione, to tell her what had occurred, but he couldn't risk sneaking off to Hogsmeade. He'd have to find a way to pass the message along somehow when the term began again...Unless, he could send her a message via patronus? He knew she'd done it before, so she'd recognize it for what it was. Alphard returned to his own bed and drew the curtains shut. Concentrating very hard on his memories of winning Quidditch games, he whispered "_Expecto Patronum..._" into the still air. Nothing came from his wand, and the memory of Cygnus' anguished, blood-curdling screams took over like fog masking the landscape. The bile rose in his throat again, and Alphard miserably searched for a more powerfully happy memory. Perhaps one from his different times spent with Hermione?

Hours later the castle began to buzz with activity and Alphard still had not conjured a corporeal Patronus.

He didn't know it then, but he would never again be able to conjure a Patronus for as long as he lived.


	43. 43: Someone Like You

Bad Romance

Author's Note: To be honest, I experienced a bit of writer's block with this story briefly, just because I was unsure of how to depict an important string of events. We are nearing the end of this fic, methinks. Not much left to go. At the very least, the Hogwarts arc will be over soon, and after that...yeah. This has been a fun but bumpy ride. Also, regarding the summary: I'm just playing around. It's sort of a hint to the storyline, but I might take it down and change it back to the old one since it has received such a negative response.

Important: please leave derogatory terms out of your reviews. Jesting at the expense of disabled persons is included in that.

As usual, thank you all SO MUCH for your reviews. HOWEVER: please do not insult my reviewers. I received a few reviews that implied that this story does not often receive well-written and thought-out reviews. This is not the case. I don't care what you say about my story, but, if you actually read the reviews, they tend to be really intelligent and helpful.

Finally: I really appreciate when my reviewers stand up for me, also. So thank you :)

PLEASE REVIEW!

Chapter Forty-Three: Someone Like You

Tom could not bear it. He could not bear sitting next to the Mudblood in class, not after what they had done and what he knew about her now. Knowing what was hidden beneath her robes, knowing that the thin, jagged white lines comprising her scar were hidden from his view by nothing more than a flimsy white blouse and grey sweater, was pure torture. He was revolted by his own thoughts, and with the term starting again, he was faced with Hermione Macmillan more often than was healthy for his sanity.

The worst part was how damn _cheerful _she seemed around him lately. Almost as though she knew something that he did not. But whenever he attempted to probe Hermione's mind, she slammed the doors on him with a cold smile. He would have thought by now that his interest in her might have ebbed—especially after finding out her true heritage—but it was all Tom could do to tear his mind from her on a regular basis.

He decided that he would have to set the basilisk on her...but before he did, he'd have some fun with her.

* * *

><p>"For heaven's sake, Alphard, just tell me what happened!" Hermione snapped at Alphard, who bristled at her tone. She had finally managed to corner him on Thursday after Herbology, though it had taken some work. For some reason, in the four days since term had begun, Alphard had been avoiding Hermione with the same indecent enthusiasm that Harry and Ron had avoided their homework. Considering Alphard's involvement in her mission, this was getting to be an irritating development. Now they stood in a lonely corridor, shafts of pale January light laying in flat strips along them. Alphard backed away, paling, as he looked around nervously.<p>

"I can't," he said shortly. "I've got to go. Please leave me alone, Macmillan," he ordered, and turned to go, but Hermione impulsively reached out and gripped his robes.

"Alphard," she insisted, "Are you upset about…what happened in Paris?"

Hermione did not miss the way Alphard's face momentarily twisted into something unrecognizable. Then, as suddenly as it had come on, it was gone and his expression was flat and blank.

"No. You can do whatever the hell you want—I don't care either way," he replied flatly, wrenching his arm from Hermione's grip. "Don't talk to me ever again," he yelled over his shoulder as he strode away from her and disappeared round the corner. Hermione exhaled heavily as she stared after the Slytherin boy. There was something in Alphard's eyes that betrayed his fear, and the fact that he seemed _afraid_ of her, and not simply jealous, was something that truly bothered her. She had seen Alphard look mad, jealous, upset, irritated, joyful, and taunting, but never afraid. What could possibly scare Alphard? Had he finally witnessed a sliver of Tom's deeper nature? Perhaps he had somehow learned of Tom's ideals, or even of his pet basilisk?

At that, Hermione's stomach clenched and she willed herself to turn away and walk on to her next class. In her time here in Tom's era, it had occurred to her on multiple occasions to simply destroy the basilisk here and now…except, she was not positive she could finish it off without some help. And if Tom found his precious 'pet' destroyed, what might he replace it with instead? No, the basilisk was better left alone, at least for now. Luckily no one had died from it during her own time, and its one victim had already passed on. But what had Alphard seen that had made him so cagey and on-edge?

It wasn't ethical, but it was tempting: Alphard would not be able to close his mind to Legilimency. Since Hermione had returned, she had already had one Legilimency lesson with Dumbledore. He had suggested Garret Potter as her mentor for Legilimency, but unfortunately, Garret would be returning to Germany in a few days' time. It saddened her, because Hermione genuinely enjoyed Garret's company. Still, lessons with Dumbledore were always intriguing, and while she doubted she would ever actually see into the elder wizard's mind, it was a tempting prospect. He was one of the best Legilimens and Occlumens out there, and she had set herself on a path to become equally skilled at these two branches of magic. The fact that she had begun to learn Legilimency put her face-to-face with a darker side of herself: she was faced with the horrifically tempting idea of using Legilimency on Alphard, to understand what had him in such a state. But wasn't that precisely the sort of thing Tom would do? No, she could not sink to such levels.

Her meetings with Garret Potter and Dumbledore had determined a new friendship between her and the two men. Dumbledore had not disclosed how Hermione had come to Hogwarts, but Hermione had the unsettling feeling that Garret had some ideas in mind about what had happened. Now the two men knew the name 'Voldemort' and knew that she had some connection to it, but Hermione could not tell them. Thus it had become a game of playing around what they could tell each other, and it was a dangerous game to play indeed. That, added with her stressful dynamic with Tom and Alphard, and Hermione was beginning to feel worn out.

"Looking ravishing, Macmillan," Tom greeted as Hermione dropped into her desk rather heavily. She rolled her eyes at him, though there was still a traitorous flutter in her chest when she met Tom's dark, wicked gaze. As it turned out, giving into Tom's advances seemed to have merely heightened their unresolved tension. In the last few days, Hermione had left her classes with him feeling like melted butter, and every time she saw his smooth lips, she thought only of how they had felt against her skin. His hands only reminded her of how they had looked and felt, manipulating her and bending her to his will. His hair had looked so mussed after their time in that hotel room, and seeing it neat made Hermione's fingers itch to muss it again. Above all she had enjoyed the look on his face before she had Apparated. Apart from longing to let Tom bed her again (and long for it she did) Hermione longed to play him again, to have the last word again.

Somehow, when she saw Tom's eyes linger on her lips, throat, or where her scar was hidden by her robes and sweater, she got the feeling he was consumed with thoughts about what they had done as well.

"Hello, Tom," she greeted flatly in comparison to his own flirtatious greeting. She set up for class, knowing full well that he was still staring at her. When their eyes met again, a thought flashed in her mind: was it unethical to use Legilimency on Tom? To find out what he had done to Alphard….to find out what he thought of her? Hermione wasn't prone to vanity and she did not wish to be, so she shoved that last particular thought aside. _Never look into his mind because of that,_ she told herself firmly. His eyes lingered on her lips. "You look alright. I guess," she added cheekily, and Tom snorted as Professor Merrythought hobbled into the classroom. Apparently, the holidays had not treated her well, and with the tense hints that she had already handed in her resignation, the class commenced—today, they would duel. Despite her compromised condition, the elderly witch still seemed to draw happiness from Tom and Hermione's interactions, and, as usual, insisted they duel together.

With the desks pushed out of the way, Tom and Hermione faced each other. This time felt different, somehow. Hermione could not put her finger on how. Tom brandished his wand as they stared at each other. Even now, she felt him gently probing into her mind, and she gave him her usual cold smile before they bowed to each other, as was customary for dueling.

"You always shut me out, darling," Tom pouted before sending a neat little Jinx her way. Determined to keep her hold on the upper hand, Hermione put all of her energy into dodging his spells and curses. They landed Hexes on each other at the same time: Tom's hair turned ginger and Hermione grew a mustache.

"Oh, very funny," she snapped as he threw his newly-ginger head back in laughter, her voice slightly muffled by her new facial hair. "Is this a hint for your tastes?" she added with a smirk, firing another curse his way that he barely dodged. It managed to singe his robes just as his hair began to fade back to black again.

"Is this a hint for yours?" he shot back. Hermione flushed as she thought of Ron and Tom again smirked at her, arching his brows triumphantly before shooting thin chains at her that coiled round her wrists. "Though somehow, I get the notion that chains are more your style," he said with feigned thoughtfulness, chin in hand, as he watched Hermione glower and struggle out of the chains. Tom had tied her up many times and it was beginning to occur to her that, perhaps, it really was a reflection of his 'tastes.'

"Not really, actually," she said as she shook them off and sent another spell his way that caused little spiders to spring forth from the black fabric of his robes and crawl over him. With a long-suffering sigh, Tom Vanished them.

"Perhaps," he said in a lower voice, forcing Hermione to lean closer to hear him better, "a second round might be beneficial for us both. For educational purposes, of course." His grin was devilish as Hermione flushed and hit him with a barrage of Hexes. He dodged most of them, but it was still gratifying to see him with ever-growing buckteeth. Lit with the victory, Hermione found herself getting cocky.

"I'm not sure you can handle it," she said innocently. Tom rolled his eyes and sent a blast of wind at her that blew up her robes and skirt, displaying an embarrassing amount of leg.

"Oh _please_, Hermione, could you be more trite? My endurance is hardly something to scoff at," he drawled as he watched in amusement while Hermione attempted to right her uniform. Despite the humiliation, excitement was beginning to build. Tom's cheeks were as flushed as hers; every time they made eye contact, she was filled with that warm fluttering sensation again. She had told herself she would only give in once, but it was a difficult thing to maintain her resolve. Their first time had been relatively quick and, compared to what she knew Tom was capable of, fairly innocent as well. "Admit it: you've been thinking about it too," he goaded in little more than a whisper.

"There wasn't much to think about," she sniffed, backing away as he stepped closer. The rest of the class was thankfully absorbed in their own duels, and Hermione and Tom's duels had long since ceased to be a thing of wonder. Tom's eyes darkened.

"You seemed satisfied at the time," he retorted. Hermione made a show of yawning.

"Oh, I don't know," she said vaguely, though she was having a hard time hiding her amusement. "It was…fine. Perfectly adequate."

"Perfectly adequate? That simply will not do," Tom murmured. Hermione raised her wand to his chest.

"Yes, well…I have a headache, and a lot of things to do, so don't worry about it." _Stop teasing him! _she warned herself. Perhaps she was motivated by the desire to see his reaction to having 'lost' one of their silly battles. She hoped that was all it was. Tom trained his dark eyes on her.

"Meet me at midnight tonight outside the library," he whispered in a hiss. Warmth shot through Hermione's body as she fought to maintain a cool facade. Hermione shrugged.

"Why should I?"

"I don't need to enumerate reasons, Macmillan," Tom replied with a smirk before drawing back and raising his wand. "I know you'll come."

Neither remarked on the double-entendre; they simply both burst into laughter, which finally attracted the attention of the rest of the class. Still, as the class ended and students filtered out, Hermione felt Tom brush her thigh with his hand before giving her a burning look and then leaving.

Hermione refused to simply acquiesce, but she did wonder if perhaps she ought to turn Tom's tactics back on him, and give him a taste of his own medicine: could she perform Legilimency on him during the act? He wouldn't be prepared for it; she had only previously shown she could perform Occlumency. What would be the outcome if she did look into his mind?

More importantly, was she simply motivated by the desire to have sex with him again? Hermione could not say for sure. Desperate to work against him, she spent the rest of the day in the library, looking up ways that she might manage to recreate Harry and Ginny's experience with the diary while still having destroyed that particular Horcrux. By the end of the day, however, she had found nothing and was sorely frustrated. Hufflepuff's cup would not be made into a Horcrux for quite a while, but her desire for Tom had her eager to do something, _anything_, towards his defeat. In the end, she settled for reading more on Legilimency, and was careful to return to her dormitory before midnight, lest Tom think she planned on meeting him.

At first she was tempted to stake out the library, hidden underneath the Invisibility Cloak, and watch his reaction when he realized she wasn't coming to meet him. But when she recalled that Tom had a particular knack for finding her even under the Cloak, that idea was canned. Hermione decided to instead delight herself with imagining how he might react, and instead checked the Marauder's Map for Alphard's dot. Indeed he was in his own dormitory. Still upset about their silence, she borrowed Augusta's owl (for fear of running into Tom on the way to the owlery) and sent Alphard another plea to end their silence.

When Hermione finally drifted off to sleep, she found herself smiling. She had pranked the Dark Lord. Too bad video cameras didn't work in Hogwarts.

* * *

><p>She hadn't come. Then again, he had guessed that she would not. At the very least, Tom had thought Hermione might have been unable to resist the temptation to prowl the corridors, Invisible (how did she do it?), and watch how he reacted. But he was almost positive that Hermione was nowhere to be found. This angered him initially until he realized that, really, this could be used to his advantage. Eventually she'd stop being able to resist her own darker desires, and eventually, she would come out and wait silently for his reaction. Hermione Macmillan was nothing if not curious. And this time, she would be fatally so. It would be the perfect way of luring her into the Chamber. Tom smirked as he imagined her watching, hidden, as he pretended to react unfavorably to her absence. He'd stalk off in an unexpected direction, apparently upset, and she would likely be unable to resist following him.<p>

And then, he would be able to rid himself of this nuisance, and all of the complications she presented: namely, the alien sense of rejection and hurt that she had inflicted upon him tonight.

* * *

><p>Alphard had never felt more sick in his life. Hogwarts had once felt like home, but now it felt like prison. His guilt had become his shadow, and though Cygnus acted like his punishment had little effect on him, Alphard had noticed the change in him, and it sickened him. His little brother was growing up in the worst way. Now Alphard was confronted with his hatred for Tom Riddle: what had started out as friendly rivalry had turned to enslavement. Tom Riddle was changing, or, perhaps, Alphard's vision was sharpening. In his mind's eye, Hermione Macmillan slid into focus, and he nearly choked on his own jealousy. Her big brown eyes had fixed on him hours before, her grip had burned him.<p>

He had once been the catch, the popular one, the leader of the pack. Now he had been shunted off to the sidelines, to watch as everything in his life that he had once thought he was uniquely privileged to was taken away from him. He couldn't stand it. For a while he had been willing to lay down and take it, but he could not do that any longer. Broomstick in hand, Alphard slipped out of Hogwarts, looking back on its looming shadow for the last time. He fixed his gaze on Gryffindor tower, knowing Hermione was there in her bed. Would she miss him? He hoped she would, and he also hoped, rather desperately, that his absence might cause her pain.

Thus he set off into the frigid January night.

* * *

><p>Humiliated and desperate, Cygnus crept into the seventh-year dormitory. It was midnight. The curtains were drawn round his brother's bed. His brother, how he hated his brother. How was it that Alphard, the perennial fuck-up, could continue to garner Tom Riddle's favor, no matter what he did? How was it that Alphard was still their mother's favorite, even though he was interested in a Mudblood, even though he always showed disdain for their superior ways of thinking?<p>

Wand in his sweaty hand, Cygnus drew in a breath before raising his free hand to the emerald green curtains and pushing them aside, bracing himself as he whispered the words of the Killing Curse, eyes scrunched tightly shut.

"_Avada Kedavra." _

When Cygnus opened his eyes, it was not Alphard that lay in his bed, but a simple strip of parchment.

_Alphard—_

_I'm so sorry. Please, tell me what happened. We're together in this, aren't we? _

_-Hermione _


	44. 44: Two Coins

Bad Romance

Author's Note: This chapter is long and pretty eventful. I squealed whilst writing it because I have been so eager to get to this point in the story and this chapter was so much fun to write! Ahh!

Important: I did not mean that this story is ending in the next few chapters. I would try to give you all a number, but I can't seem to pin down how many chapters it takes me to get through parts of the story. My point was mostly that we're past the halfway mark, I suppose.

Also important: I also did not mean I do not appreciate negative reviews; I simply do not appreciate derogatory language (like the r-word, etc) and, considering ffnet is a place to foster growth of writing skills, I just don't think this is the place for that sort of language. Thus I don't want to see it in the reviews. By all means, insult my story however you want. Negative reviews are the most useful of all. Already I have learned so much about my writing and have found so many ways to improve from negative reviews. So keep them coming :)

As usual, I really appreciate your encouragement as well. Things are (slowly) beginning to turn around in my life. As this occurs, it's so nice to get your PMs and reviews and get such a sense of caring from you guys. You all are awesome. Honestly I have to say that the words of kindness really helped me through the past few weeks. I can't thank you all enough. Keep them coming too; they mean a lot to me.

Poll: should I start replying to the unsigned reviews on LJ? Would you guys find that helpful? I try to reply to all of your reviews; if I don't and you left a signed one, expect to hear from me at some point in the near future.

Chapter Forty-Four: Two Coins

Cygnus couldn't believe his luck. A note, from the Mudblood, to his brother! He shoved his wand in his robes and grasped the scrap of parchment with his sweaty hands, adrenaline coursing through his body. Finally, he had found the thing that would unequivocally win Tom Riddle's favor. He stuffed the parchment in his pocket and poked round his brother's bed. Where _was_ Alph, anyway? He frowned when he opened the wardrobe and saw it empty. His trunk was gone as well. A smirk slowly spread cross Cygnus' face. Had Alphie run away? This was all working out too perfectly.

"Cyg? What're you doing here?" Abraxas Malfoy's groggy voice caught his attention. Cygnus froze before turning slowly to see Malfoy poking his blonde head between the emerald curtains of his four-poster bed. His grey eyes looked like twin moons, catching the tiny bit of light from a single candle across the room.

"J-just looking for Alph," he stammered. This was not a good time to reveal his true intentions—what if Malfoy, also one of the least liked of Tom's Knights, wanted in on his scheme? Malfoy blinked sleepily before stumbling out of bed.

"He's not here?" The older boy rubbed his eyes and yawned as he went over to Alphard's empty bed. "Hm. Weird."

"His t-trunk's gone too," Cygnus added, hoping he sounded worried. Malfoy frowned.

"Maybe he went home? You ought to owl your mum, Cyg," he urged before yawning and stretching again. "Night."

"...Yeah. Night," Cygnus replied unsteadily, holding his breath as Malfoy clambered back into his bed and drew the curtains again. Cygnus cast one more look at his older brother's bed. Where _had_ Alphard gone off to, anyway? Alph's actions had always been a bit odd. He was certainly the outcast of the family, after all. He always openly disdained their parents. _...That never stopped Mum from liking him best anyway,_ Cygnus thought bitterly. Still, it was unlike him to run off.

But now that he had this note... Cygnus fled the seventh year boys' dormitory and returned to his own bed, holding his wandlight over the parchment. How might Tom react to this note? Cygnus got the feeling he would not likely be pleased about it. But wouldn't he be pleased by Cygnus having found it? This was proof that Alph and the Mudblood had been communicating. Tom's interest in the Mudblood went without question, so the fact that Alph had been communicating with her would certainly upset Tom... Alph would -have- to fall out of Tom's favor. To Cygnus, it was a mystery as to why he hadn't yet. Alph was the only one who ever questioned Tom, who ever disobeyed his orders. Yet Tom seemed to prefer him to all the others. Why? Why would Tom prefer such a disobedient, mistrustful man over his ever-faithful Knights?

In Cygnus' opinion, this would have to be the thing that would end Tom's approval of Alphard. He just needed to come up with the right way of presenting such valuable information. Would it be best to show it to Tom, seeming upset and worried? Or perhaps, Tom would want both the Mudblood and Alph disposed of. Would it be best to present him with the note and the Mudblood's corpse? He shuddered. He was prepared to use the Killing Curse, but it still seemed macabre to have a corpse in one's possession. Perhaps it'd be best to bring her to Tom with her disabled in some way, unable to fight if Tom chose to kill her. Cygnus had heard of her dueling skill—she was infamously talented. Even Tom had admitted he might have met his match in her.

_I'd be his backup, his right-hand man_, Cygnus thought with glee. Hours after that were whiled away as he imagined what his life might be like if he were Tom's most favored Knight. He'd get all the girls, he'd have all of the privilege. Perhaps, after Tom's goals were unveiled, Cygnus' mother would finally like him best, and not Alphard, the Blood Traitor.

* * *

><p>Irma Black was having a most strange day. After she and Pollux had returned from their trip to Paris, her days had been packed with helping Walburga prepare for her wedding to Orion Black. It was a coupling that Irma supported wholly, but she wished that Walburga weren't so picky about her wedding robes. Still, Irma considered herself to be an example of the height of fashion, and so she also was secretly pleased that her daughter was following in her footsteps. Irma was not a happy woman; she delighted in her own misery, in fact. Thus such a happy time was alien to her and she had become caught up in the whirlwind of well-wishing and goodwill.<p>

Still, she knew that something was strange when she returned to the estate that Friday, after a week of traveling round the country, making sure all of their most notable relatives were informed of the marriage. The front gate, an enormous wrought-iron spidery thing set between two moss-covered stone walls, was open. Obviously, they locked their home with magic, and anyone who could get past the front gate had to be related to them in some way. Had one of the boys returned home? It was unlikely; neither Cygnus nor Alphard had any adequate means of traveling back to their estate.

Perhaps she had simply forgotten to lock it. With a frown, Irma pushed aside the gate, locking it behind her. One of their house-elves was waiting by the front door to take her cloak, as was expected, and another set waiting to open the door for her. They looked more doleful than usual, which unsettled Irma, but again, she cast aside the thought. House-elves and their own drama were none of her concern, thank you very much. She tossed her cloak off as she stepped inside the polished but dark foyer, grateful to be out of the bitter cold and the snow. In the Black estate, gleaming wood so dark it was nearly black and black granite reflected the strips of pale winter light peering in through the windows, which were tall, thin, and nearly covered by thick dark emerald drapes.

"M-missus Black," stammered the house elf who had opened the door. Irma cast a disdainful glower down at the raggedy little elf and arched her brows, waiting for it to continue speaking in its pathetic little whimper. "Master Alphard stopped by." The teacups and teapot on the silver tray it carried trembled and clinked with the house elf's own trembling. "We couldn't stop him, as he is Master Alphard..."

"Stop him? Whatever do you mean, elf?" Irma asked irritably, rearranging her black fur-trimmed robes on her bony shoulders. The house-elf whimpered again before casting a fearful glance up the stairs. Now that she looked closer, Irma noticed that the blood-red rug running up the black granite staircase looked a bit rumpled, as though there had been a struggle. Alighting the stairs warily, Irma went up to the second floor. Atop the stairs, the door to her eldest son's bedroom was ajar, which was quite unusual. Alphard always kept his door shut and locked magically. Irma's brow furrowed as she pushed the door open wider, revealing her son's bedroom.

It was as though a whirling dervish had come through. His trunk lay open, with clothing and books scattered along the carpet. His drawers in his dresser were nearly ripped out of their encasing. And the velvet box that contained the key to his vault at Gringotts...lay hanging notably open, the emerald velvet conspicuously lacking a key.

"Tell Pollux," Irma said imperiously to the house-elf, who was partially hidden behind a curtain. "Let him know his son has run away."

With a crack, the elf Disapparated. Irma swept across the room to the window and stared pensively out at the kitchen gardens, which lay blanketed with virgin snow. "He'll be back. He's just a little boy," she said to no one in particular.

* * *

><p>Technically, he had every right to be at Gringotts, considering he owned a vault there and had the key with him. He had access to his money by law now, as he had turned seventeen months ago. Still, Alphard couldn't shake the nervousness that continually seemed to creep up on him just when he thought it had fled. Pushing aside the enormous doors to the wizarding bank, Alphard entered the marble vestibule, filled with besuited goblins.<p>

"I need to withdraw funds," he explained to the nearest goblin.

"Key?" the goblin asked in a bored, somewhat irritable tone. Alphard fumbled for the key in his pocket and held out the tiny silver thing for the goblin to take in his grubby hands. "Right this way, Mr. Black." As Alphard had grown up hearing his father called that, it was strange for it to be his title. He wondered that he would ever become accustomed to it. He followed the goblin to the little cart, and after a bumpy, twisting, violent ride, he stood in front of his vault. It was a wonder that he had made it this far without being stopped. He reflected on this as he eyed the stacks of Galleons. After a moment's hesitation, he drew his money bag from his robes and began scooping as many Galleons as he could fit into it. For good measure, he added some Sickles and even a few Knuts. The money bag stretched to bursting, Alphard marveled at how he had hardly seemed to make a dent in his fortune. The vault still looked the same as when he had entered. It couldn't have been a trap though; no one knew his plans. At last he was led back to the cart, and in moments stood in the harsh January sunlight, significantly weighed down by his own fortune.

He had gotten a room at the Leaky Cauldron, but he knew that the little pub cum inn received too much foot-traffic—sooner or later, his parents would find him there. Thus Alphard checked out of the Leaky Cauldron and, his trunk hovering magically next to him, wound his way to Knockturn Alley. The familiar spots were Borgin and Burkes, a jeweler specializing in items from pureblooded families (where his mother insisted his father buy her presents from each year), and a pub that he had once met Tom Riddle and their friends at over holiday a few years ago. Alphard passed these and made his way to the very end of the high street. A stone building covered in rather menacing ivy stood at the bitter end, looming over the street ominously. As what looked to be a lycanthrope left the building, the door slammed shut, and snow was knocked off the hanging wooden sign to reveal: Maranatha's Hollow.

"Cheerful," Alphard mumbled sardonically to himself. "Maranatha's Hollow it is."

Hopefully no one would find him at this filthy dive of an inn, though he knew without a doubt that he could not stay here for long...his parents and Hogwarts were not the ones he worried about. Alphard rubbed at the grimy glass on his window and stared out at the snowy gray street. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the freezing glass, ignoring the greasy surface against his skin. Two effigies swam into his vision as he pressed his eyes shut: Tom Riddle and Hermione Macmillan. "Hermione..." he whispered, relishing the sound of her name on his lips. What was it about her that drew him to her so painfully? He had run away from that life, and yet, she and Riddle continued to follow him here in his heart. Why would they not leave him alone to his guilt and grief?

* * *

><p>When Hermione entered the Great Hall the next morning for breakfast, her eyes drifted to Tom Riddle without her permission. Sure enough, he sat at his usual spot at the Slytherin table...though Alphard, strangely, was nowhere to be seen. Instead of screeching with laughter at the boys' jokes, Hyacinth Parkinson was looking quite distraught and was being comforted by Abraxas Malfoy as Tom turned his head to meet Hermione's gaze. For a moment, his expression was unreadable. Hermione had been prepared for his amusement or anger, but thoughts of how she had 'pranked' him the night before were banished from her mind. Where was Alphard?<p>

Unsettled, Hermione drifted in a haze to the Gryffindor table. Rupert was gazing at the Hufflepuff table, making eyes with Amelia, but Geoffrey was scowling even more than usual and ignoring his cereal.

"There you are. You're late," Geoffrey greeted irritably as Hermione slid in next to him and began reaching for some orange juice, her eyes still fixed on the empty place at the Slytherin table. She had never seen Tom without Alphard seated next to him at meals. "I see you've noticed what everyone is talking about. Apparently, Black's gone."

"Gone?" Hermione's head jerked to Geoffrey.

"Gone," Geoffrey affirmed. "No one knows where he went. He just...disappeared. Apparently his little brother was looking for him last night and no one could find him."

"I-I'm sure he just fell asleep on patrols, or something, in a random classroom. He'll probably turn up later today. You know how easy it is to get lost in the castle," Hermione said in a tone of forced lightness. Geoffrey looked skeptical but said nothing more on the subject, and instead cast a disdainful look at Rupert's turned head.

"Can't stop staring at her, can he?" he said, rolling his eyes. Hermione grinned and punched his arm, though when she turned to attend to her sunny-side-up eggs, she found she was no longer hungry. Alphard's absence had unsettled her, and until she could run back to her bed and check the Marauder's Map, she wouldn't feel comfortable. _He's somewhere around here. It _is_ Saturday morning...maybe he had a late night...?_

"It's nice, Geoffrey. I for one am thrilled for them," Hermione said bossily, returning to the present. For a flash, she reminded herself of Percy a bit, and almost snorted into her eggs. Geoffrey massaged his temples.

"Oh yeah? Tell me how thrilled you are when Rupert shows you what he's giving his girl," he whispered darkly. Hermione looked at Rupert, who had finally forced himself to turn back to the table and eat.

"What are you giving Amelia, Rupert?" Hermione asked him. His expression abruptly switched from over-the-moon with joy to one of fierce embarrassment mixed with a bit of pride. He blushed hotly, his pink cheeks clashing oddly with his flaming hair.

"I'll tell you when we leave," he muttered before making a show of shoveling kippers into his mouth to avoid further conversation. Hermione raised her brows at Geoffrey, who sighed loudly.

"You'll see. Though you'll probably be delighted about that as well, knowing you," he said with fervent disgust. After breakfast, Hermione followed the boys to their dormitory, and sat with Geoffrey on Rupert's bed as Rupert rummaged through his trunk for something.

"I asked my mum about it," his voice came muffled from the bottom of his trunk. Something shattered and he swore. Suddenly an idea of what he was planning on giving Amelia took shape in Hermione's mind and she shot a look at Geoffrey, stating plainly with her eyes that she had figured it out.

"Took you long enough," Geoffrey muttered.

"And, well, she's met Amelia, so..." he came up from the depths of his trunk, holding a little red velvet box. It was nowhere near as scarlet as Rupert's face. "I know it's really sudden, but you know, I've never met a girl like her, and she's so fun and cute, and pleasant to be round, you know? And she's an excellent cook, and we both want a few kids," Rupert rambled, clutching the little box with trembling hands. "Well, here, what do you think?" he stammered, shoving the box at Hermione. Tears of joy pricked at her eyes and she blinked rapidly. For a moment, it had felt like Ron had been handing her a jewelry box. Shaking off the feeling, Hermione opened it to reveal a very old, very beautiful ring. It was simple and elegant, with a silver band and a single diamond set into it.

"It's absolutely lovely. Oh, I'm so happy for you," she said in a choked voice, shoving the box at Geoffrey so she could throw her arms around Rupert. "You two will be perfect together, I just know it!"

"Gross. Get a grip, 'Mione," Geoffrey scowled. Hermione relinquished her hold on Rupert and turned to smack Geoffrey upside his head. "Ow! What was that for! I'm the best man—I can say whatever I bloody well want to!"

"Sod off," Rupert said with a grin, though she had never seen him looking so pleased. "Y'think she'll go for it?"

"I'm sure of it," Hermione replied, smiling at Rupert. "When are you going to ask her?"

"Tonight, in Hogsmeade," Rupert said happily, taking the box back from Geoffrey, who looked so repulsed by the piece of jewelry that Hermione had to laugh. "Merlin, I'm so scared I might die," he confessed, but still the grin stayed on his face. He turned to Hermione quite suddenly. "You'll go, right? To the wedding? If it happens, that is."

"Of course I will. It would be an honor," Hermione reassured him.

After discussing the possible engagement some more, Hermione went off to see about Alphard. In spite of feeling euphoric that Rupert and Amelia had found each other, she was left with a sense of melancholy. In that moment that he had handed her the box so nervously...it was like seeing a mirror image of her own fantasies. That had been exactly how she'd always imagined that Ron might propose. And even though she had never wanted to get married too soon after school, Hermione could not push aside the knowledge that she had already given her virginity to a man she would not marry. For numerous reasons, Tom Riddle would never be her husband. She would never truly be the blushing bride.

_ I made my decision, and it's time to stop fussing about it_, she told herself as she climbed the stairs to her own dormitory. Even though she accepted that this was the path she had chosen, she still envied Amelia. Her life seemed so simple, so carefree—a study of what might have been for Hermione, in the absence of Voldemort. Then again, without Voldemort, Ron and Harry might've never become friends, and the two boys might've never saved her from that troll. And if they hadn't, would she still have fallen in love with Ron?

It was too tangled to bother pondering, and eventually Hermione put aside her jealous feelings, recognizing them as not only frivolous but also mean, and not Gryffindor-worthy. With this in mind, she searched through her trunk and located the Marauder's Map and, after drawing the curtains round her four-poster, unrolled the familiar worn piece of parchment.

She could not find Alphard's dot anywhere on it. Fear gripped her.

_Calm down, he's probably just out on the grounds… _Bundling up, Hermione set off to search the grounds…but still, even after an hour of wandering, there was no sign of Alphard. As a last-ditch effort, she staked out the Room of Requirement. Hours passed as she sat against the wall, trying to get a bit of reading done to pass the time. Every so often, she checked the Map. By the time sunset crept up on the snow in pink and purple streaks, Hermione had to conclude that Alphard was nowhere in or around Hogwarts. An idea seized her and her breath caught in her throat as she stared out the window, out at the distant outline of Hogsmeade.

What if Alphard had been taken into the Chamber of Secrets?


	45. 45: Bonds

Bad Romance

Author's Note: Oh my god. This chapter. So long. It's pretty pivotal; I really hope you guys like it.

Person: thanks for the encouragement!

Lala: You always leave such wonderful reviews! I wish you signed them so I could reply to them personally, but here is the best I can do.

Izzy: thanks for the suggestion :) Hopefully this outcome is just as satisfying and interesting!

Know-it-all: I always wonder if you're channeling Hermione with that nickname. Thanks for always reviewing; I really appreciate it :)

Slightlyordinary: Usually every day or two; sometimes it takes me longer. I have no idea how long the story will be. We're definitely well-past the halfway mark.

baileyvicious: thanks! I appreciate it :)

: (didn't leave a name) Thanks for the review! Alphard's role will become clearer in the next two chapters.

The rest of you, I have either PM'd or will PM soon. Thanks for all the reviews! :D

Chapter Forty-Five: Bonds

The glass fogged as Hermione exhaled in thought, eyes tearing at the image of Alphard's motionless body lying within the Chamber of Secrets. Her fingers curled against the stone window pane as her stomach lurched. Was Alphard dead? Was it possible? She didn't think he was slow-witted enough to allow it to happen, but then again, how could anyone possibly anticipate their once best-friend luring them to such a horrific death? Even if Alphard seemed to have a fair idea of Tom's deeper nature, she doubted he could recognize Tom for what he truly was: a psychopathic killer.

She wanted to go and see for herself now, but even if she were prepared for the basilisk, no one would save her if she did become petrified. _It's what Harry would have done,_ she thought guiltily, turning away from the window and hugging her arms round her body as she walked. But Harry had often relied on others to pick up the slack of whatever stupidly daring, nervy thing he had done. She knew his guilt about inadvertently falling into Voldemort's trap and luring Sirius to the Department of Mysteries had never really left him, and had he remained alive, it would stay with him for as long as he might live. Harry had perhaps learnt from that particular event, and to Hermione, it was all the proof that she needed that it was stupid and, ultimately, pointless to prance off to the chamber looking for Alphard.

The solution came to her in a sudden burst of clarity: Legilimency was the surest way to find out if Tom had something to do with Alphard's disappearance. But how could she do it? How could she possibly catch him off-guard? Tom seemed to perpetually be prepared for the worst...a prime example being his fear of death prominent enough at the age of sixteen to propel him to begin making Horcruxes. She needed to sort out a situation that might disarm Tom enough to allow her a sneak-peek into his mind...and she needed to do it soon.

Once more she checked the Marauder's Map half-heartedly for Alphard's dot, and once more her heart sank as his label did not turn up. When she spotted Geoffrey and Rupert's names, she gasped, and after wiping the map, she stuffed it in her bag and began sprinting to Gryffindor Tower again. She did not want to be late to meet them in Hogsmeade; Rupert was probably on the verge of insanity due to his nervousness about the proposal.

"There you are. Where in Merlin's name have you been?" Geoffrey demanded when Hermione burst through the portrait hole.

"Library," she replied absently. Rupert was doubled over in one of the armchairs, head between his knees, dry-heaving.

"Sort him out. Do something. You're a girl; you know how to handle these things," Geoffrey ordered crossly, though his worry for his best friend shone through and Hermione smiled fondly at him before going to crouch next to Rupert's chair.

"It'll be fine," she said softly, placing her hand on Rupert's tense back. He rose slighty, his face quite green. Strangely enough, he looked more like Ron in this moment than he ever had.

"Please come with us," he whispered hoarsely. In trembling hands he was clutching the little velvet box. "Geoff is just making me feel more nervous," he confided. Hermione looked up to see Geoffrey pacing in front of the fire, scowling at nothing. "I'm worried if Amelia says no, he'll Hex her or something," added the Weasley boy. Hermione grinned and snorted when she imagined Geoffrey chasing Amelia out of Hogsmeade brandishing his wand all too vividly.

"It'll be lovely," she comforted him. "Come on, you don't want to be late, do you?"

The trio left the tower after Hermione had stashed her bag in her trunk, and met Amelia on the path to Hogsmeade under a twilit sky. Amelia had been walking with a few other Hufflepuff girls; apparently she suspected nothing. Hermione and Geoffrey shared a look of amusement when Amelia went in to peck Rupert on the cheek and he backed away, clutching his hand to his mouth as though he feared he might vomit slugs.

The general agreement was that it was much too cold to traipse about town; instead they headed for the packed Three Broomsticks and, after a bit of a wait, landed their favored booth towards the back. Abruptly Hermione was reminded of her 'date' with Tom in this very same booth, after Minerva's failed wedding. _An ominous portent, _she thought with a shudder. Simultaneously, the memories of Minerva's wet eyes, Tom's smooth lips curling into a smirk, and the red door against the snow seemed to crash together in her mind and she fought another shudder as she slid into the booth next to Geoffrey.

"I can't believe in a few months we'll all be out of Hogwarts," sighed Amelia after Rupert returned with their drinks. "I'll miss this so much. I wish you had come to Hogwarts sooner, Hermione. I feel like we didn't get enough time together!"

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but Geoffrey cut her off with a smirk.

"Oh, I'm sure we'll be getting together like this, the four of us, for a long time to come..." he said cryptically, raising his brows at Rupert, whose nausea seemed to return with a vengeance as he timidly pushed his own butterbeer away. Amelia was no idiot; she picked up on the tension and shot a rare glower at Rupert.

"Okay, that's _it_. What in Merlin's name is going on?" she demanded of her boyfriend, throwing her arms up in the air. "You've been acting funny all week and I've had enough of it! Just bloody well tell me what I did!"

The outburst, coming from cheery, soft-spoken Amelia seemed to shock everyone equally, and Rupert opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Amelia's eyes narrowed into slits. "Well?" she leaned forward and prodded Rupert in the chest...directly over his shirt pocket, where Hermione knew he was keeping the jewelry box. "Ouch! What was that?" Amelia had poked the jewelry box.

"Hermione, I've just had the sudden urge to use the toilets and I can tell you have too. Look how much butterbeer you've had," Geoffrey said loudly suddenly, pointing to Hermione's untouched butterbeer. Still, Hermione shot up immediately and they left Amelia, who was looking completely and utterly confused, and Rupert, who managed to send Geoffrey and Hermione a resentful glower. Geoffrey tugged on Hermione's hand and dragged her away from the couple. As they wove their way through the packed pub, Hermione spotted a certain handsome dark lord and his followers...notably sans Alphard Black. Her stomach clenched as she met Tom's dark eyes and a flutter ran through her chest, sending shivers down her spine. Did he _have_ to undress her with his eyes? It was bloody well inappropriate, really. She read her name on his soft lips just as someone stepped in front of her. Then they were leaving the pub and standing in the frigid, wet January evening.

"Blimey, that was not going as planned," sighed Geoffrey, running a hand through his newly cropped black hair, which had turned out to be brutally short. Apparently Mrs. Potter had the same methods of hair-cutting that Mrs. Weasley had. Hermione remembered the haircut Mrs. Weasley had given a rather reluctant Charlie and grinned at the memory.

"Once Amelia sees the ring, she'll understand," she consoled him. For a moment, they both stared back at the pub in thought, as though staring at it might create a general feeling of goodwill and force Amelia to accept Rupert's proposal. Then the door opened, and Tom was standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the golden light of the pub.

"Bloody hell. Do you ever leave her alone?" Geoffrey scowled. Tom let out a musical laugh as he shut the door behind him, and the golden light was gone. Dusk had fallen and the snow seemed to glow pale blue in the strange lighting.

"She's irresistible, Potter," he said smoothly. Geoffrey made a show of rolling his eyes as Hermione found herself blushing in spite of herself.

"Well, if I stay too long the love-bug might be contagious, so I'll be off then," he said shortly, making retching motions at Hermione before jogging off to the path back to Hogwarts. Hermione wanted to beg him to stay, but it was too late, and now she was alone again with Tom.

"You never showed last night. I'm hurt," Tom said after a moment of silence. Hermione pressed her lips together. She wished she had had a chance to think and strategize more; her next move had to be a good one if she were to effectively find out about Alphard.

"I can see that," she said sarcastically. He stepped closer and surprised her with his next remark.

"If you prefer Potter, just say so," he said huffily. Hermione strongly suspected it was an act, but she couldn't help the spike of pleasure in her: was Tom jealous? And if so, how could she use it to her advantage? If he wanted to play this game, she'd happily play along.

"Perhaps I do," she parried, hands on her hips. Tom's eyes narrowed.

"You're lying. You never blush around him," he said shrewdly. "Are you simply trying to upset me?"

In fact, it had never even occurred to Hermione that her time spent with Geoffrey might be seen as romantic involvement. Still, Tom was right: Geoffrey did not make her blush. She also doubted Geoffrey would ever be at all interested in her. Actually, imagining that was funny as well, and she smirked at Tom. He looked deeply offended by her amusement.

"Of course not," she replied innocently. "I thought what happened between us was a one-time sort of thing. I don't recall you ever stating that you owned me or had any say over my time. At least Geoffrey holds my hand, and at least he cares about his friends. I find that attractive in a man."

"Does Potter know that the only way to get a scream out of you during sex is to angle your right leg just so? More over the shoulder than around the hip, actually."

"A lady doesn't kiss and tell, Tom," she said coolly before turning on her heel. His language had made her flush and she did not wish for him to see it. "And topographical knowledge of me is hardly impressive."

"Then what _is_ impressive to you? Awful Quidditch playing? Absurd haircuts? Friendships with talentless idiots such as Bones?" Tom's voice was rough; she heard him stepping closer again to her, the snow crunching under his feet.

"Yes, actually," she said coldly. "If Rupert went missing, Geoffrey would be damned before he'd be caught gallivanting round Hogsmeade instead of looking for his best friend."

Tom's laughter was chilling.

"You think I don't know precisely where Black has gone? Silly little girl," he hissed in her ear. His breath was warm; his lips barely grazed the edge of her ear. Hermione's heart began to pound in her chest; she could not rid her mind of the image of Alphard, laying lifeless on the wet mossy stone. "Perhaps if you had met me last night, I might have told you. But since you were busy letting Potter rub his grubby hands over you, you never gave me the chance."

"I thought you said I was lying," she replied unsteadily as he circled her to stand in front of her. "I thought you didn't believe Geoffrey and I were..."

"I'm not sure what to believe, Hermione," Tom said plainly. "You tell me you were under the impression that what we did was a one-night stand, but I'm quite sure it was _my_ name you were screaming in that hotel room. One-night stands do not garner such behavior."

She wanted to catch him off-guard; his jealousy had surprised her, but how could she surprise him back?

"Prove that it wasn't a one night stand," she said finally, sweat sliding down her palms from the way Tom was looking at her. His lips curled into a half-smirk.

"With pleasure," he replied, voice dripping with insinuation, arching his brows meaningfully. He gripped her wrist hard, making her cry out in surprise. "Come on, then." He began dragging her roughly back to the castle. Hermione didn't even attempt to stop him; if he were to take her to the Chamber of Secrets, then she might at least see if Alphard really were there or not. Her wand was hidden in her robes, luckily, so she was prepared at the very least. Tom did seem a bit thrown-off by her unusual submissiveness as well as her silence. He kept glancing over his shoulder at her with looks of plain confusion. "No protesting? No arguments? I'm worried," he confessed as they entered the empty Great Hall.

"I told you to prove it to me," she reminded him calmly, trying to ignore the pain from how tightly he was gripping her wrist. With a devilish smirk, he continued wordlessly. Hermione anticipated him leading her to the familiar corridor to the girls' bathroom; she was right. She wondered how she ought to react to this development. "The bathroom? Sorry, not to my tastes," she teased as he forced his way through the door and locked it magically. Hermione feared they might encounter Moaning Myrtle, but for once, the bathroom was devoid of the glum ghost.

"Actually, I believe it's the most private place we will find, as my fireplace is unfortunately open to the Floo network," Tom explained with feigned apology, turning to face her. Now moonlight streamed into the bathroom through one of the high windows. It was amusing how many memories this place held for Hermione. She tried to make sure her eyes did not wander too much to the pillar of sinks in the center. "Unless you like being watched; in which case, simply let me know and I'll happily oblige," he added as an afterthought.

"This comes as a bit of a disappointment," she confessed, disdainfully looking at their surroundings. "Geoffrey, at least, has located the more comfortable private spots on the grounds," she added with a significant sniff. Tom's nostrils flared as he breathed out through them angrily.

"Potter lacks creativity. I'm sure he wants to do it in a bed every time," he said in a bored tone, approaching her swiftly. "But frankly, this is not our final destination. You think Potter has any real, valuable knowledge of this castle's deepest secrets? Think again, Hermione. Now, watch closely." He gripped her by her hair; Hermione marveled at how powerfully his jealousy, however hypothetical, seemed to effect him. "You are wont to disagree with me, typically, but I assume you can agree that Salazar Slytherin was the most secretive, most intriguing, of the four founders of our school," he began lecturing, drawing her closer to the tap that she knew had an 's' scratched into its side. "And, as you know too much for your own good, I assume you know that he built a secret chamber before he left the school, hidden for his sole heir to discover."

"The Chamber of Secrets. Which, according to you, Hagrid discovered," Hermione reminded him. Tom laughed again; it was a high, cold laugh.

"Ah, yes, Rubeus Hagrid: the blundering oaf. It amuses me to think that he could possibly be the true heir to the great Salazar Slytherin's line. No, Hermione: use that pretty little head of yours for all it is worth. Salazar Slytherin: one of the greatest wizards in history. Known for his cunning, stealth, and wicked charm. He had fine taste in women, as well, and only would accept the purest, most worthy blooded witch as his lifelong partner. That philosophy, of course, was preserved all down his great line of descendants. You've never met Hagrid, so you can't possibly appreciate the humor of all this, but people actually believed that Slytherin's line could produce a brutish lump such as that half-giant fool! Astounding, really."

Hermione was beginning to feel sick, and Tom's grip on her hair was painful. She narrowed her eyes at him. It was time, she knew, for the proverbial kill: not because she had planned it to be thus, but because her rage and hatred for him had come surging forth, overpowering her lust for him. Listening to him abuse Hagrid had awakened the old grief buried underneath everything else. She could not stand by any longer, knowing what Tom had done and would do in the future, knowing all of the people who were already dead or ruined because of him.

"Tom, you're rather poor at building suspense, as I've suspected it was you who killed that girl all along. You're not as secretive or cunning as you think you are," she said baldly. Tom's dark eyes flashed, and, drawing in a breath, Hermione forced herself deeper into them, searching for Alphard.

It was unlike peering into Dumbledore's mind; Hermione was roughly reminded of her first dream she had had of Tom. Like crawling through a wet, dark, tangled forest, ghosts of images flitting past her tantalizingly. Often she saw herself and it was damn near impossible to stop herself from peering closer at those thoughts and memories. Tom Riddle Sr's face swam by, his blue eyes so flat and blank. She felt Tom abruptly attempt to close his mind, but she plundered forward, until she spotted Alphard: he was not lying in the Chamber of Secrets at all, really. His slim cloaked silhouette was a dark smudge in the night as, gripping his broomstick and hovering his trunk behind him, he ran down the path to Hogsmeade. It was at this point that Tom finally managed to wrench her from his mind. The force of his magic threw her backwards and suddenly Hermione was in the bathroom again, gasping and sweating, and stumbling backwards to fall on her rear. Pain shot through her wrists as she threw her hands back to stabilize her fall.

Tom's wand was drawn, his eyes dark and cold, so very unlike his father's, as he loomed over her. Was she about to die? If there had ever been a likelihood of her life ending, it was now more than ever. His long, pale fingers brandished the yew wand almost lovingly as he stepped closer. The exhilaration of what she had accomplished left Hermione feeling her inner Gryffindor spirit perhaps more than she ever had. "Never bothered to study up on Occlumency, I take it?" she taunted. Tom's eyes flashed.

He stared down at the trembling little form of the Gryffindor girl. She trembled but did not cower.

"Foolish," he whispered, stepping closer to her again. The only sounds were of his robes swishing, his dress shoes against the tile, and Hermione's uneven breathing, and the tap dripping murky water. "Foolish, foolish girl." She had never looked more beautiful than in this moment, ironically. Her eyes were wide but taunting, her hair wild like a lion's mane, her robes splayed on the floor around her as she edged backwards. His eyes drifted to her arm and he despised the lust that brewed within him unabatingly. Why, even now, must he desire her? How had she found out his secret? She truly was his match in every way, and it disgusted and intrigued him.

"No, you're the foolish one, Tom," she retorted, attempting to stand. With a swipe of his wand, Tom pinned her to the broken, damp tile, and now only her eyes moved as she watched him hungrily, waiting for his next move.

"I suppose you think you've got something over me now," he said coldly, standing in between her splayed legs. Her bare knees were as pale as the moonlight. His mouth practically watered at the sight of her smooth flesh. "But I don't believe for one second that you received that funny little scar from Grindelwald followers, dear Hermione. And now, I'm going to take what belongs to me: the truth...and you."

He descended upon her, and Hermione hated herself for how she melted into his kiss.

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><p><strong>rest of this scene on LJ soon. explicit content; i won't repeat my little spiel about all that again. y'all know the drill.<strong>

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><p>In an unguarded moment, he had forgotten himself. The invisible, magical bonds weakened. Now was her only chance. Adrenaline coursed through her as Hermione reached for her wand.<p>

"Expelliarmus!" she cried. Only surprise could have helped her here; the yew wand nearly flew out of Tom's hand. Using the moment where he fumbled to grasp it again, Hermione cried "reducto!" and a chunk of marble from the center of the bathroom hit Tom's shoulder. She could not turn back now. She ran, she ran harder than she had ever run in her life.

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><p>His rage and confusion boiled in his very skin; Tom stalked back to the Slytherin common room in a fog of anger. She had fled. It hadn't been difficult to track down Alphard, but unfortunately, Hermione had proven herself a trickier one to catch. Worse yet was how he found himself anticipating the chase: excitement thrummed in his veins, lurking underneath his powerful rage.<p>

In the common room sat his Knights; Tom had little desire to see them and silenced all of the fools with a flick of his wand before entering his suite. When he heard a knock on his door, and a timid whimper of "my lord..." he paused and opened the door a sliver.

"Yes, Black?" he demanded irritably, looking down at the younger Black's brutish face and heavy-lidded eyes filled with beseeching neediness.

"I found this, and I thought you might like to see it. It's proof of what my stupid blood-tratior brother has been up to." His grubby little hands presented Tom with a wrinkled scrap of parchment. Filled with irritation, Tom snatched it from his grasp, dark eyes sweeping over the paper. When he comprehended the meaning, he realized that Alphard Black was more traitorous than he had initially understood: he must have told the Mudblood of Tom's true intentions. "Aren't you pleased with me, my Lord Voldemort?" Cygnus added, eyes glittering with selfish hope. Poor, unsuspecting fool. Tom rounded on the younger Black, fury twisting his features into something unrecognizable.

Had he not silenced Cygnus' screams of pain, they would have filled the castle and beyond.


	46. 46: El Tango de Roxanne

Bad Romance

Author's Note: I have to warn you guys that this chapter is dark. You know the drill: censored part up soon on lj for appropriately-aged readers. I _know_ it's a pain to censor things, but **ffnet put those rules in place and I respect that**. Special thanks to Nerys for pointing out the rule about having more than one author's note in a chapter. Now I feel like a moron for only having read part of the guidelines, lol. *headdesk*

As usual, you guys rock with your incredible, amazing reviews. Things are really looking up. It's so great and helpful to be constantly getting such lovely reviews, emails, comments, and PMs from you guys. I never imagined this story would get any reviews at all, and I figured I'd lose confidence/interest in it after a few chapters and give up (hence the stupid title which I will never live down. I suck at giving things titles and honestly, Bad Romance was just sort of slapped on because I published the first chapter in a big hurry and kind of scrolled through itunes until I found a song that fit the Tomione dynamic). Lo and behold now I am neck-deep in angsty kink.

Oh right, and special thanks to ChloeDavis for sending me the corrected French dialogue from a few chapters ago. A lot of you volunteered and I really appreciate all of that work, lol...I myself do not speak French. At all. Which I am sure is obvious by now, but yeah... babelfish is only helpful when you're translating for the benefit of people who don't know the language at all, apparently.

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><p>Chapter Forty-Six: El Tango de Roxanne<p>

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><p>Hermione didn't even dare to stop and fix her clothes; she sprinted to Gryffindor tower, dizzy with her own adrenaline, and stumbled directly into Geoffrey.<p>

"Hermione! You—"

"Not now; something happened, I need to leave," she said frantically, hurrying up the stairs to her dormitory. In seconds, her things were packed into her trunk and her clothes were fixed. She stood in front of Geoffrey in the common room, panting and attempting futilely to catch her breath.

"Leave? You don't mean..." his eyes drifted to her packed trunk. "What in Merlin's name happened?"

"There's no time. I can't tell you right now. Geoffrey, I'm not sure when I'll see you again, but I'll owl you or something," Hermione explained apologetically, and threw her arms around a very surprised Geoffrey.

"It's Riddle, isn't it?" he asked shrewdly. When she bit her lip, he exhaled in resignation. "Alright then. But I have a feeling Amelia's going to ask you to be the Maid of Honor, and I'll be damned if you're missing Weasley's wedding, got it?"

"Got it." She was a bit surprised when he returned her hug. "I'll owl you soon and explain then. Just..." she paused, "...be careful from now on, okay? Hogwarts isn't safe."

Geoffrey watched her as she cast a Hover Charm on her trunk; when she was about to crawl through the portrait hole, he spoke again.

"I guess Garret was right about you after all," he said quietly. Hermione turned to look over her shoulder at him. Silhouetted by the fire, he resembled Harry strongly, especially with the look of suspicion carved into his features. "You're not really just a student, are you?"

"...Goodbye for now, Geoffrey," she said heavily, and left the common room.

The castle was quiet. Most people were either in Hogsmeade, the Great Hall, or their common rooms, so Hermione was able to flee the castle in relative peace. She made use of one of the secret passages, and soon stood in Hogsmeade. She threw the Invisibility Cloak over herself and cast a Disillusionment charm for her trunk. Moments later she nearly stumbled directly into Rupert and Amelia, who were having a rather passionate encounter in a darkened alleyway. Grinning to herself, Hermione continued on. She had seen Alphard leaving Hogwarts in Tom's mind, but where had he gone?

It was getting too late to search, and Tom had hinted that he knew where Alphard was, so even if she did know, it would be silly to join him now lest Tom come looking. Hermione Apparated to Diagon Alley and got a room at the Leaky Cauldron. After unpacking a bit, she stood in the hot shower, and for reasons she did not wish to examine, pressed her forehead against the tiled wall, her shoulders moving in silent sobs. A few moments of that and she had collected herself, feeling slightly ashamed for her little outburst. Washing Tom's scent off of her body had been difficult, and when she finally curled up in her new, unfamiliar bed, she was maddened by the fact that his scent continued to linger. It was reminiscent of how her first few days in this era, his aftershave had lingered on her robes...only this time, it was a much more musky, personal scent, and for that it incensed her all the more.

She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, recalling the day's events. Beyond what had passed between them intellectually was the memory of what they had done and it left her cheeks rosy red and her breathing pace quickened. Twice now Tom had taken her. At least in the hotel, she could pretend it had been romantic, but there in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, the basilisk just a few hisses of Parseltongue away, had been anything but romantic. He had used her, he had fucked her, and while all of the elements of rape were there, Hermione could not stop reliving the afternoon in delirious pleasure.

In an attempt to halt her recollections, Hermione took out the picture of Ron and Harry and stared at it. Funny how this man had shaped her life down to the little details and now he was unknowingly tearing it all up again. The man who had ostensibly brought her and Ron together had managed to shatter her attraction for Ron. She had long since recognized her feelings for Ron as childish, and now, staring at the photograph, she felt humiliated by her own feelings. She had been so sure, been so _completely_ positive, that Ron had been the one for her. But Tom—and to a lesser extent, Alphard—had proven that Ron had turned out to be a flame and nothing more.

It was also funny how, faced with such dire situations, your life could be completely stripped of all frivolities. The things Hermione had once been so fucking sure of: her own unfailing loyalty to Ron, her faith that she would marry him and bear his children, the belief that she herself was far too intelligent and calculating to be led astray...all ruined, because of Tom. Tom and his deliciously dark eyes, his devilish smirk, his sensuous voice and lips...and the power that he radiated even when he wasn't trying to do so. Hermione had prided herself on her ability to logic herself out of any given situation, and yet her lust—a completely idiotic, inappropriate, disloyal, and just plain downright _wrong_ emotion to feel towards Tom—had brought her completely to her knees.

And even though she had pranked him, even though she technically had been getting and would continue to "get his goat" Hermione realized now that it was useless to make any resolutions against him. She would only give in again next time, wouldn't she?

"I'm just a complete idiot," she sighed aloud, flopping against her pillows. To her utter surprise, she heard a long yawn from across the room.

"You don't seem completely unfortunate, but then again I've been wrong before," her mirror said sleepily. "...But you might want to find a way to cover up all those hickeys," it advised as an afterthought. Hermione's cheeks burst into flame anew as she pulled away her nightgown to observe all of the lovemarks that Tom had left. When her eyes swept over her scar on her arm, she shivered recalling his tongue against her flesh there. He had seemed to pay the scar extra attention. Why did he seem so intrigued by it, when it was the very summation of all that would soon make him Voldemort?

Eventually, Hermione drifted off to sleep, her dreams polluted with entirely deviant and corrupt images of the young dark lord himself.

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><p>Alphard's skin was both burning and itching. He mused that had he not been so careful in his selection of witches at Hogwarts, this might have been a more common sensation for him. As it were the irritation was due to something he had just had done in Knockturn Alley. Depositing his cloak and moneybag on the rickety chair in the decrepit little room at Maranatha's Hollow, Alphard shrugged off his robes and turned in front of his mirror to admire his new tattoo. It ran up his side, undulating with his ribcage which had become more pronounced recently. It was of a snake, and not just any snake: the legendary basilisk, a creature that had always fascinated him. In spite of leaving Hogwarts, he still associated himself with Slytherin House. Especially considering his own ambitions had led him to such a crossroads with Tom, and his own instinct for survival had lured him away from the castle he had once thought of as his real home...two qualities that had put him in Slytherin in the first place. The skin around the tattoo looked red and angry, and even though it stung to stretch the skin, Alphard did not care. He was pleased with how it had turned out. His mother would have been furious, and that too pleased him to no end.<p>

Alphard lay down on the tiny sunken mattress, shirtless, careful not to rub the raw skin against the scratchy cloth of the comforter. His sadness at leaving his life behind had ebbed mostly, though Hermione Macmillan continued to haunt his dreams. Perhaps his next tattoo would involve her in some way, seeing as she had had such an impact on him.

Thinking of her made heat shoot straight to the juncture between his legs and Alphard scrunched his eyes shut tightly. He did not wish to think of her and frustrate himself further. The only option was to occupy his mind with other...things. He knew there were a number of brothels in Knockturn Alley, and while he knew of the dangers of entering them, he also was feeling a little desperate to rid his mind of a certain lioness. After a few bracing swigs of Ogden's firewhisky, Alphard pulled his heaviest robes and cloak on, with a hood that mostly covered his face, and set out into the freezing night.

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><p>Torturing stupid little Cygnus had helped, slightly, but Tom still was throbbing with rage. Pacing his suite like a caged tiger did nothing for his tension, and even trying to sleep helped little as well. Every time he closed his eyes, images of what had occurred earlier between him and Hermione surged forth, leaving him breathless and flushed. And then the witch had <em>fled<em> and it drove him to the brink of insanity. She had fled, and he had bloody well _let_ her! It was pathetic...no, it was disgusting, how he allowed himself to be ruled by this witch. He should have simply set the basilisk on her when he had first found out her birth and skipped all of this absurdity.

But then...something coiled tighter in the very pit of his abdomen as he recalled what had passed between them. It seemed like divine interference that a woman he found so completely captivating could turn out to be a Mudblood...and not only that, a smart one. She knew things about him now, and while he knew he would have to eliminate her, elimination was...unappealing. He knew how to make her scream his name, he knew how to make her cheeks flush with all sorts of different emotions, and the worst thing was...she knew how to make him scream her name. She had incited a variety of feelings within him, most of them not too commendable.

Lord Voldemort rose from his bed, dressing swiftly, a smirk lurking on his pale lips. Yes, it was time to begin the true chase... he crossed the room to the fireplace and grasped a handful of Floo Powder from the silver dish on the mantelpiece. Hermione Macmillan was tricky, secretive, and most certainly a challenge, but if he knew her (which he had the gall to feel he did) he had a hunch of where she might be.

"Diagon Alley," he said into the emerald flames.

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><p>Hermione woke with a start, drenched in sweat from her lewd dreams. Ignoring a jibe from the mirror, she showered again and dressed, despite it being the middle of the night. She was not in the mood to go back to sleep, for in her dreams lurked Tom, and she did not wish to see him now, in all of his smirking elegance. What seemed to make her feel better at times such as this was to work against him, and it was with purpose that Hermione set out into the night, leaving magical wards up on her room...just in case.<p>

Diagon Alley was deserted. The snow fell in fat wet flakes as Hermione surveyed the empty streets, memories of her own time streaming back as she passed the shops. Knockturn Alley seemed a bit more lively, so she steeled herself and took the turn onto the more ominous looking high street. Indeed it seemed that the darker road's patrons favored the nighttime more than those of Diagon Alley. Pubs were bursting with activity, hooded figures strode about everywhere. Hermione caught on quickly and raised the hood on her cloak. It had been wise to dress in wizarding clothing, she mused.

"Oh, there's a pretty little thing," a horrific voice screeched somewhere to her right. Hermione ducked out of the grasp of a sallow-looking witch in tight, glittering robes the color of dried blood. "Fetch a good price for her, we would," she said just before Hermione blended back into the stream of people, her stomach tied into knots. At the end of the high street was a pathetic looking inn that caught Hermione's attention. For a moment she stood, looking round at her surroundings and waiting for a brilliant idea to pop into her head, when a patch of golden light above caught her eye. A familiar figure was pulling robes over his head, revealing a wiry torso with dark markings. Hermione watched as the figure tossed the robe aside and dark waves were freed.

She was looking up at Alphard himself. Hermione drew in a breath sharply as she watched him stare at something, standing shirtless, before lying down on his bed. Moments later he rose again, dressing. She watched as he took a swig from a glass bottle and the golden light went out, casting her in darkness once more. Her heart began to pound. He was leaving his room, but where was he going? Knowing from previous experience that straightforward questions did not work on Alphard, Hermione made sure her hood covered her face. Moments later, Alphard appeared on the street, similiarly cloaked all in black. Still she recognized his confident gait and lean shoulders as he turned to glance around him before setting down the street. Hermione followed a few paces behind him, resisting the urge to call out to him.

Alphard stopped in front of a shadowed building set back a little farther from the others and at an angle, so that its alley began barely big enough for a person to fit through. The Slytherin glanced around in a paranoid fashion before ducking between the wet stone walls. Naturally, Hermione followed, though her heart was pounding in her ears. She remained in the shadows as she watched Alphard knock on a door that had previously been invisible; it seemed to emerge from the wall after he had knocked. The door creaked open and Alphard glanced around once more. Finally the door swung shut as the hem of his black cloak disappeared into the building.

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><p>Tom reveled in his ability to predict the Gryffindor girl's behavior. Not five minutes after he had arrived in the deserted wizarding street did she appear before his very eyes. He scoffed as he watched her set off into the night, pulling the hood of her cloak up over her wild curls, which were dripping wet, he noticed with intrigue. Picturing her bathing made him quite grateful for the frigid midnight air and he noiselessly set off after her, his cloak swirling behind him with the snow.<p>

It was amusing to note how many sets of eyes followed Hermione's petite figure down the length of Knockturn Alley. Even in something as neutral as a black hooded traveling cloak, Hermione seemed to radiate light and goodness. Like moths drawn to a flame, various and sundry figures crept along after her, but Tom silently disposed of them. She was _his_ prey tonight, and it simply would not do to have competition, however pathetic said competitors might be. At last Hermione came to a stop in front of the little inn that Tom had learned Alphard was hiding in, and he watched her watch Alphard undress. Evergreen envy tinged his vision but he remained in his hiding place in the shadows, mouth watering slightly as her hood inched backward from her face in the snowy wind, revealing pink lips and rosy cheeks, stray curls twining their way out of her hood.

It was a bit disappointing, really, how easily he had located her, but he knew Hermione well enough to anticipate that finding her was the easy part...capturing her was a different matter entirely. Alphard exited Maranatha's Hollow and Hermione went after him. Alphard's greatest weakness and strength was his propensity for passion, so it was no surprise to Tom when he entered one of the more exclusive brothels in Knockturn Alley. He smirked at Hermione's evident confusion. She was just innocent enough to not know of just how great a hold lust had over men. She could not possibly comprehend it. Like an innocent little doe, she crept along the alley after Alphard had entered the brothel, and in expert silence Tom followed, pressing his lips together to stop himself from laughing.

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><p>It was nearly pitch-black inside, save for a red lamp in the corner. A nauseating combination of smells assaulted Hermione when she entered the room: the cloying ache of overly sweet perfume, the pong of old, stale sweat, the musky but undeniable odor of sex, and then, something putrid lurking beneath all these. Hermione thought she might have felt something brush behind her, but she was too caught up in keeping her presence masked from Alphard and the tenants of the building to think on it. Sounds: moaning, shrieking, grunting, sighing, sobbing, and the wet slap of skin against skin met her ears. Alphard did not lower his hood as he stood in front of a large woman wearing cheap, ill-fitting robes and smoking on a curved pipe. The smoke had a sickly sweet odor that made Hermione's head buzz.<p>

The witch crowed an unfamiliar name and a chubby young woman with smeared eye makeup and filthy hair came trotting into the room like an abused dog.

"No, isn't there anyone else?" Alphard's familiar boyish voice demanded. The witch began to protest but halted abruptly when Alphard produced his money bag and let heaps of Galleons slide out from it. Now she sang a different tune.

"What'll it be?" greed sparked in her beady eyes.

"Curly hair...brown eyes...sort of...petite, I guess," he said in a softer, more hesitant voice. Hermione's stomach clenched and her nausea increased. "She has to look...innocent."

"It'll cost you," the witch warned, eyes set on the Galleons sprawled out in front of her. Still, she called out another name and another girl appeared. She was more frail looking, with shadows underneath her brown eyes and hair that looked as though it had never been brushed, hanging in wild tangles down to her waist. Hermione watched with eyes wide as saucers as Alphard hesitated before following the girl to another room. Careful to stay in the shadows, Hermione tried to follow, though deep down she had a fair idea of what this place was.

The front room had been separated by a wooden latticed screen; the girl led Alphard to a small section with the lattice on all sides, a single candle on a nightstand next to a mattress on the floor. The stench had worsened when she had approached this room. Hermione remained behind the screen, peering between the squares of wood as the girl shed her filthy robes, revealing beaten, scarred flesh. _Turn away,_ Hermione urged herself, but her eyes were practically glued to the scene before her. Her breath caught in her throat as Alphard let his cloak and robes slip off. An angry looking tattoo along his side caught the light; it was a serpent and reminded her of barbed wire. He looked ill, he was so pale and gaunt now. The beginnings of stubble were evident along his jaw line as he took the girl by her shoulders and pressed his lips to hers.

"I'm going to call you Hermione," he explained in barely a whisper. Hermione thought she might throw up yet she could not turn away. She watched Alphard's hands drift to the girl's wild hair as they kissed, and suddenly, elegant fingers were covering her mouth, soft lips against her ear.

"I'm disappointed in you," Tom whispered. Hermione was paralyzed by her own horror and shock. "You hardly made it difficult to catch you. And I was so looking forward to the chase." His voice was masked by the sounds of sex coming from the rooms above and around them. "You see: even as Black wishes to have you, you still belong to me."

Alphard urged the girl backwards and onto the bed; Tom urged Hermione to turn her head and meet his lips in a silent kiss, his grip on her chin searing and painful.

"Hermione..."


	47. 47: Awakening

Bad Romance

Author's Note: I just realized I've never put in a disclaimer. So there's that. Also, sorry for the gap between updates. I had some monstrous school work and job related items...that, and I actually wrote out this chapter but just wasn't happy with it. For whatever reason, it just didn't flow very well. Meh.

As usual, your reviews, PMs, and LJ comments are super appreciated. You guys are so awesome :D

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the HP universe; it and all associated characters/plot elements belong to JKR. I am simply playing with her characters. I also do not own Bad Romance by Lady Gaga.

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><p>Chapter Forty-Seven: Awakening<p>

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><p>They slumped to the floor, flushed and gasping, still pressed skin-to-skin. Somewhere along the way, Hermione had managed to tear his shirt and he had made quick work of her robes and undergarments, but Tom had no recollection of either. When he shifted his weight, he felt searing along his back that must've been from Hermione's nails on his skin. It was rather impressive, actually, how much damage she had managed to do to him. Still, it was nothing in comparison to what he had done to <em>her.<em> Hermione's hair was wilder than ever, damp tendrils clinging to her forehead, cheeks, and neck, and bruises and bitemarks were beginning to appear on her pale skin. Her eyes were dark and dreamy, still filled with lust, her chest heaving. The way her soft skin reflected the dim light, showcasing her curves, was undeniably enticing. Tom did not practice restraint too often, and he saw no reason to begin doing so now. He leant down, relishing the feel of her curves against his own skin, and pressed a rough kiss to her lips.

Had she not known better, the kiss might've seemed loving or tender. As it were, Hermione did not allow herself to venture down that path—therein lay dragons. Instead she contented herself in returning the kiss for a moment, basking in his scent and the heat radiating off his skin. Her hips ached from accommodating him and the floor was grimy and filthy, but Hermione hardly noticed when Tom's lips were against hers. His dark waves were wound in between her fingers. Soon, she knew it would all end, and she would have to return to reality, but just for a moment she let herself forget. It was too easy to forget she was lying on the floor in a whorehouse, still wearing most of her clothing and probably filthy now, and pretend they were a young couple in love. _No, we're just in lust,_ she thought as they broke apart. And even that she was not sure of—was Tom lusting after her, or just enjoying dominating someone who did not automatically fall to his feet?

"Eventually Black will have to leave, and we'll be caught," Tom whispered against her lips. "No running away this time. You're mine; have I not proven that to you over and over again? You will have to answer my questions."

"Can't force me," she hissed back. The spell had been broken, and reality was like a burst of shattering icy water. Hermione struggled and squirmed, attempting to push him away, but Tom pinned her down.

"Yes, actually, I believe I can. Watch." His voice was hissed, frenzied, and sibilant. One hand held her by her jaw, forcing her to look at him, as the other gently caressed her skin. Goosebumps prickled along her skin as Tom repeatedly tried to enter her mind. His tactics changed and he reached inside her robes, fingertips along her hipbone. Still she did not allow him inside her mind. "No matter. You'll break eventually. And if not, the magical world has provided me with ample resources for getting the truth—"

He did not finish; a startled gasp halted him. Hermione and Tom both tensed and froze as Tom slowly looked over his shoulder. By the edge of the screen stood a very shocked and horrified looking Alphard, with the prostitute behind him.

"H-hermione? Riddle?" Alphard began, clearly not quite believing his eyes. Even from a few feet away, Hermione detected the pungent scent of firewhiskey. Alphard had been drinking. Impulsively she rose, standing with Riddle still pressed against her, and turned on the spot as swiftly as she could.

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><p>He wanted to attribute it to a hallucination, but even after the crack of the Apparition had shaken the brothel, Tom's aftershave lingered in the air with the achingly familiar scent of Hermione's skin. It could not have been a hallucination. Feeling sick, confused, angry, and filthy, Alphard wrapped his cloak tighter round his shoulders and fled the whorehouse, ignoring the prostitute's broken requests that he return. It had been the worst time in bed he'd ever had. Even his first time had been less depressing than that. Out in the bitter cold night, it was like being splashed with chilled water, and he felt a little more centered. Why had Riddle and Hermione been there? Had they done it to make him jealous? How had they found him, at any rate? He needed to be a little more careful if he were going to live this way.<p>

After returning to Maranatha's Hollow to shower and change his clothes, Alphard tried to sleep again but found that he could not. Even as his vision swam with the effects of sleep deprivation and his body cried out its exhaustion, sleep would not claim him. When the pink streaks of morning lit up his room, Alphard put on his cloak again and returned to the grubby little building he had stopped by yesterday.

"Back again so soon?" the toothless wizard Pugsley greeted knowingly when Alphard ducked inside the shop. "First customer of the day. What'll it be this time?"

"Several things, actually," Alphard said quietly, dumping Galleons on the table in front of Pugsley. Pugsley had putrid breath and scars mixed with his tattoos and brandings. Because of this, his age was nearly indeterminable to Alphard, but he pinned him as being at least forty, if not older. Pugsley's beady little eyes followed the movements of Alphard's money bag but he did not ask for more funds, for which Alphard was grateful. It sickened him how much other people wanted his money, when he would have given up all the gold in his vault to have his normal, peaceful, relatively happy life back.

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><p>"Where did you take us, witch?" Tom demanded as they came tumbling onto frozen ground, snowflakes stinging their faces in the pitch black darkness. Their robes and cloaks swirled around them at the mercy of the violent wind. Distant was the roar of the sea. In truth, this was a place she and Harry had stopped during their Horcrux hunt, but she obviously could not tell Tom that. Rolling, tangled moor spread out all around them, the frozen and bump sod not quite allowing snow to pile up very high.<p>

"Much further south," she panted, heaving to catch her breath from the shock of what had just happened, and clutching her torn clothing round her body. "Don't look at me like that, I needed to get us away!" she snapped at Tom's arched brows.

"Fair enough. And in fact, this is ideal for getting answers out of you." He drew his wand; Hermione knew herself and her own abilities well enough to know she was far too exhausted, both physically and emotionally, to hold her own against Tom in a duel right now. But how to get out of this predicament? Wherever she went, he'd find her eventually. The only option was to feed him something he could believe that would placate him enough to not kill her, but as Tom was unpredictable it was hard to determine a course of action that might save her.

"Not here," she began, grasping at straws. "Let's go inside somewhere; I'm freezing to death." It was just a cheap ploy to delay and give herself more thinking time, but Tom seemed to accept it, and stepped forward, holding her body against his and disapparating again. When they reappeared outside of the Leaky Cauldron, Hermione feared Tom might force her to allow him inside her room. That would be disastrous, as her most incriminating items were not well hidden. But to her surprise, he dragged her to the fireplace on the edge of the pub; grasping a handle of Floo powder, he shoved her inside the grate first.

"Slytherin dormitory," he said flatly. Hermione choked on the Floo powder in surprise as the Leaky Cauldron disappeared and she tumbled out of the fireplace at the other end, coughing and sputtering. She had landed herself in a sumptuous suite: a four-poster with velvet emerald green hangings took up most of the room, with elaborately carved furniture and a plush emerald rug. Moments later Tom stepped out of the fireplace with much less clumsiness than she had.

"Tom," Hermione began, searching for ways to delay him asking her questions—or demanding them—longer, but Tom gave her a searching look before setting aside his wand. This set her on edge further and she backed away. Tom did not follow her, but instead looked rather hurt, somehow.

"Hermione, don't cringe away from me," he asked softly. At once his features looked angelic and sweet, and it almost took her off her guard. "Have a seat; you may have a drink if you like. This is the Head Boy suite...my room."

Hermione watched warily as Tom shrugged off his cloak and robes, revealing his ripped shirt underneath. He changed out of it and pulled a fresh undershirt and sweater over his head right in front of her. He was shirtless just long enough for her to catch a glimpse of what her fingernails had wreaked on his pale, smooth skin and she sucked in a breath sharply. "Hermione, you look so uncomfortable," he observed with regret etched in his voice. "I won't force you to speak of anything you do not wish to speak of," he cajoled, stepping forward and brushing her cheek with his hand. Somewhere along the line he had lit a fire in the fireplace they had just come out of. She expected him to use Legilimency on her now, but he did not. Apparently he was simply biding his time. Still she was unable to stop herself from giving in to his soft kisses. After how they had had each other twice in one day, the tenderness was intoxicating. She longed for this, for this gentleness.

_He's trying to get me to relax_, she told herself warningly as his hands wound around her curls, pulling her flush against him in a warm and loving kiss. Chills ran down her spine; he was so effective at playing the part of a tender and sweet man that it was almost sickening. It hurt her, to be faced with a tantalizing glimpse of what could have been...in an alternate universe. It would never happen here. Tom Marvolo Riddle was incapable of love.

It was a fact and she knew it. So why did it hurt so much, that she could never have this with him truly? Somehow it did. His lips sliding against hers so sweetly was perhaps more powerful in bringing down her elaborate emotional defenses than all of the rough and passionate encounters between them lately. He had discovered what she craved even more deeply than intense heat and passion: love. And though he could so completely not understand love for himself, Tom was terrifyingly skilled at recreating the feeling of it.

He coaxed her down onto his bed, trailing soft and fluttering kisses over her cheeks, neck, and chest, before sinking against her frame continuing to move his lips against hers. Finally, he stopped and extinguished the fireplace and candles, and after placing a few more kisses to her, wrapped his arm around her and pulled her back against him, as though they were sleeping together.

She guessed he intended on catching her off-guard in the morning, but Hermione was not to be fooled, no matter how greatly she was inclined to believe his lies. She forced herself to stay awake for hours more, until she knew dawn must be approaching. Once, she chanced a glance backwards at his sleeping face. His beauty was heartbreaking.

She could bet that Tom was a light sleeper, so she had to be quite careful. She noiselessly slipped out of his bed, pausing every few seconds to make sure he was quite asleep. Satisfied, she turned to use the Floo powder, but something caught her eye.

On top of his desk lay the diary. Had she not known better, it would never have caught her eye. It was an unremarkable black leather-bound little book. She crossed the room to it. After how he had taunted her, how he had attempted to play to her deepest desires and insecurities, Hermione was beginning to feel quite irrational and impulsive. Tears stung her eyes as she thought of how Alphard had looked just before they had Apparated. She probably could have gotten the same sort of love and acceptance from Alphard that Tom so falsely put on as a ruse...but why did it not seem as appealing, coming from Alphard? Even imagining Ron placing those kisses against her skin was nowhere near as compelling as the image of Tom doing so.

Had she fallen for him?

No, no, no. Panic rose within her. Without a second's hesitation, she grabbed the diary and stuffed it in her cloak. To keep up appearances, she hastily nonverbally Transfigured one of his quills into an identical diary and left it on his desk. She heard the rustling of sheets; Tom had awoken. She grasped a handful of the Floo powder and just as Tom jumped out of his bed to stop her, she said "Diagon Alley," and began the familiar rushing journey from grate to grate. Even if Tom followed her, she'd be able to Apparate inside her room, as her wards had been specialized to allow her alone back inside her room. When she stumbled back into the Leaky Cauldron, she did not wait to see if he had followed her: she Apparated at once back into her room.

In her hands she held the thing that had tipped off Dumbledore to Voldemort's Horcrux quest, the thing that had in part brought together Harry and Ginny, the thing that had gotten Lockhart fired. Was it wise to destroy such a valuable item?

Her own heartache came rushing back to her. The only man who had ever made her feel so strongly was Lord Voldemort, but he had no true feelings of love for her. Perhaps he might lust after her, but that was inconsequential.

It wasn't difficult, from this angle, to make her decision. She would have fifty years to find a way to recreate those events as much as possible, whether through her own manipulation or through a combination of spells to recreate the diary. Hermione set the Horcrux down on the ground, reflecting on how shabby and harmless the little book looked on the floor. She retrieved a basilisk fang from her bag and stood above the diary. A moment's fear gripped her, but she pushed those thoughts aside.

He didn't love her, and never would. Lord Voldemort was incapable of love and only capable of hatred and lust for power.

He didn't love her.

She brought the basilisk fang crashing down on the diary, piercing the leather and parchment, thinking of the way Tom looked when he was asleep.


	48. 48: Vanishing

Bad Romance

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay; I was overcome with excitement about my new Tomione story (which is actually almost complete, lol). Thanks as usual to all of you wonderful, lovely, intelligent reviewers. Happy Halloween ;)

Disclaimer: See previous disclaimers.

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><p><strong>Chapter Forty-Eight: Vanishing<strong>

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><p>The diary and the ring were gone, so why did she feel so empty? Hermione sat in her room in the Leaky Cauldron, staring at the ink-splattered floor. <em>Tom...<em> While she chipped away at the bonds holding him to life, he seemed to clutch at the bonds he held to her heart. She was miserable even as she came nearer to her own goal she had set for herself.

Now it was all ending. From here on out, there was no reason for her to interact with Tom. Ostensibly the only times she had reason to run into him were to keep track of him, yet she could do that perfectly well without him seeing her—in fact, it was optimal if he did not see her.

Hermione had never been quite so conflicted before. Even in her darkest times, her own morals had shone like a beacon, far-off and distant in the darkness, illuminating her path on her quest. Now she shied from that light, drifting towards the darkness willfully. She picked up the stabbed diary, black ink snaking down her pale hands. How would she react when she did see him again? Would she resist the pull of those lovely, wicked eyes? Or would she surrender?

Despite knowing what she had to do, surrendering seemed like the most inviting option, especially now when his scent still clung to her skin and the bruises from his touch remained.

_You should never have given in in the first place._

It was a bit late for that sort of thinking now, however, wasn't it?

Hermione showered for a third time that evening before sending an owl to Geoffrey to let him know she would contact him soon. Hair again dripping wet, Hermione left the Leaky Cauldron, reluctantly dropping the wards she had set round her room. According to the Marauder's Map, Tom was still in his room, but considering his fireplace was connected to the Floo Network, he could appear before her in an instant.

Impulsively Hermione fled Diagon Alley, trunk hovering behind her. It was early morning now. Whilst Diagon Alley was just waking up and beginning to buzz with life, Knockturn Alley seemed dead._ I suppose there is rest for the wicked after all._ Without stopping to analyze her footsteps, Hermione went to Maranatha's Hollow. Alphard's curtains were drawn and when she tried throwing a rock at his window, there was no response. She tried sending him a Patronus message, and eventually concluded that he was not there. Just as she was about to give up and Apparate to a more deserted location to set up camp, she heard footsteps crunching on the crumbling cobblestone road.

Alphard had stopped a few feet away from her. He didn't even look surprised to see her there, merely weary and haunted. His dark hair hung in his eyes and shadows circled the once-friendly brown eyes. Strangely his evident misery lent him a rebellious appeal that she had noticed often in Sirius. The boyish roundness was disappearing from his face, leaving in its place a chiseled grace that was unexpected. He looked more like a Black now than he ever had before.

"I thought you'd come," he greeted shrewdly. "Come to apologize?"

"I have nothing to apologize for, except for what you saw last night. If you'll let me, I can explain what happened," Hermione replied, hanging her head. Alphard's laugh was scraping and callous.

"What's the point?"

"You have more to apologize for, actually. You left without a word. I came looking for you," Hermione said acidly, her temper rising. "You just ran away. We were supposed to be a team."

A muscle in his jaw leapt. Alphard stepped forward, closing the distance between him. His rough fingers on her jaw were sudden and his voice was hissed and frantic.

"I watched my brother be nearly tortured to death for my communication with you. I had plans but they're all for naught when that man can ruin lives with a flick of his wand. I gave up trying."

"H-he tortured Cygnus?" Hermione stammered. Alphard's expression hardened as he released her chin. Hermione rubbed at her aching jawline, watching as Alphard turned away.

"It was the most horrible thing I've ever seen," he said bitterly. "I will never forget that. He was screaming and writhing..."

Hermione had the urge to point out that once—it seemed ages ago—Alphard had attempted to use the Cruciatus Curse on her. Of course he had not known at the time that it had been her hiding in the underbrush that night, but did that make a difference? He still had tried to use it. Still, she reminded herself that Harry had also once used the Cruciatus Curse as well. It was a tricky subject to debate. There was also the fact that Alphard was an ignorant boy, when it came down to it, and probably had been unaware of what the Cruciatus Curse looked like in action.

"You almost wish he had just used the Killing curse instead," Hermione sympathized, and Alphard's head jerked to her as he regarded her with complete surprise. "Take me up to your room; there's something I want to show you," she finally added in a wavering voice. Silently Alphard led her into Maranatha's Hollow. It was filthier than the whorehouse. As Hermione followed him up a set of twisting, winding, cramped stairs, she could smell the sweat, sex, and firewhiskey on his skin. And then a sharp tang of something...what was it?

His room was mostly empty, save for his trunk which lay open, pushed under the window, and a money sack with Galleons spilling out of it. An empty bottle of Ogden's finest lay discarded on the broken bureau.

"I have something I want to show you as well," he said, turning to face her. When he undid his cloak and cast it on his unmade bed, Hermione felt a jolt of worry, but she stood stock-still, her trunk still hovering behind her. Alphard shrugged off his robes. His bare chest was as lean and sinuous as she had remembered it to be, but there was something dark snaking around his ribcage...

He turned around, having the decency to look a bit self-conscious, and Hermione drew in a sharp breath.

She had seen the serpent tattoo through the screen hours ago; up close it was made clear that it was a relatively new tattoo, and not only that, it was no ordinary serpent. It was a basilisk. _Does he know about the chamber...?_

Directly opposite the basilisk was a magnificent lion rearing, as though just about to attack the basilisk with pure ferocity. It seemed brand-new, even newer than the basilisk tattoo. Angry red irritation surrounded the marked skin. Goosebumps prickled along her skin. His flesh looked so soft and young otherwise... And then all of that dark anger concentrated along his wiry back. Her mouth went dry as she followed the tail of the basilisk tracing downwards, disappearing into the waistband of his plain dark pants. He turned back to her with raised eyebrows. His expression was now of proud defensiveness.

"Slytherin and Gryffindor...?" she observed. Alphard bit his lip.

"Now you show me yours." His voice was soft. Hermione waved her wand and the trunk fell to the floor. Sucking in a deep breath to quell her nervousness, she shrugged off her traveling cloak as well.

"Cygnus isn't the only one who's been tortured with the Cruciatus Curse," she began, bracing herself to roll up the sleeves of her robes, "I was once tortured by it for so long that when they cut this into me... it didn't even hurt that much."

Alphard's eyes jerked to her arm as Hermione revealed the scar that she had only ever willingly showed to one other person: Tom. After she had received it, it had never been a good time to tell Ron and Harry. In fact, it had seemed rather selfish to do so. The blood drained from Alphard's face as he stared down at the white scar tissue. Eventually he raised his eyes to her face again. With his dark waves in his eyes and the wicked smirk beginning to curl his lips, he looked strikingly like Sirius at his most mischevous.

"Some people wear their hearts on their sleeve—you wear your blood status." He stepped forward and grasped her wrist, his fingers moving along the scar tissue in fascination. His scent, this close, was much stronger, abruptly transporting Hermione back to the brothel. Alphard's grip on her wrist was so much rougher and clumsier, so much less possessive and malicious than Tom's had been. "You should get it tattooed over. Be proud of who you are."

"Easy for you to say," Hermione said, her voice hoarse from how dry her mouth had gone. "Now are we forgiven?"

"No." Alphard dropped her wrist and flopped down on his bed, crossing his arms behind his head, in a display of his bare torso. It was easy to see how this man would grow up to effect and influence Sirius so strongly. _He will probably think his Uncle Alphard is the epitome of cool_, Hermione thought, masking her smile. "You still have to tell me what exactly you were doing in the brothel with Tom last night."

"I followed you. I didn't want to confront you; I just wanted to make sure you were alright. But Tom had followed me. I didn't even think he might find a way to get out of the castle, so I didn't think to cover my tracks more carefully."

For a flash, the playful, boyish Alphard surfaced as his eyes widened.

"You followed me?" his voice was so soft, so hopeful. It seemed likely that Alphard merely wished to be the most important person to someone. Perhaps his feelings for her had little to do with their interaction and everything to do with his desire to be the first choice, the one preferred.

"Yes," she said softly. Alphard's lips twisted into the first genuine smile she'd seen him crack in ages. "I was worried about you. You had just left... we hadn't gotten to discuss plans."

Alphard didn't respond. "I've run away from Hogwarts. I'm done with it. I'm done with Tom. I still have a mission of my own to keep up, but I will not be working out of Hogwarts anymore," she explained. At the mention of Tom, a searing pain not unlike the Cruciatus Curse ripped through her soul. Everything with Tom was all over... she wanted time to mourn but she knew she had many years ahead of her to mourn and regret.

"Where will you go?"

"I have a tent; I'm going to go from place to place until I can get the funds to settle down for a bit, I suppose."

"I find it difficult to believe you're done with Tom," Alphard finally spoke quite plainly. His boyishness had dissolved and he was once again cool and aloof. "How many times has he fucked you now? I guess you're over that other guy."

"How many times have you fucked other girls? You have no right to question my behavior," Hermione shot back angrily. "If you do it again, I fully intend on Hexing you, and I have no reason to hold back. This is the last we will speak of my...interactions...with Tom. Ever."

"Fine. Just don't force it in my face all the time then," he said nastily. Hermione bit her lip to stop herself from shouting at him; this conversation was going nowhere fast.

"Whatever. It won't happen again, so... Whatever." Again that searing, scorching grief: he didn't love her. She pushed it aside hastily but could not completely free herself of it. "I thought since we're both runaways now, we might as well join forces. But since you seem to be incapable of being civil, we should just forget it," she continued, crossing her arms over her chest. Alphard's eyes lingered on her scarred arm, rather as though he were making a point.

"...Truce. You're right: we may as well work together. I can't stay here forever anyway; my parents are bound to find me soon. Even they aren't -that- stupid." His eyes drifted to his spilled money on the bureau. "I also have more gold than I know what to do with. It'll last us years. Decades, if it needs to."

"It's hard to believe that you're willing to spend decades with me," Hermione said with a sardonic grin that Alphard returned fully.

"Oh, it shouldn't be too hard to spend decades in a tent with an attractive girl," he taunted. Hermione rolled her eyes but filled with pleasure. It seemed she and Alphard had tacitly made up.

"Truce," she finally laughed as Alphard rose from the bed and they shook hands.

There was no time to waste. All Hermione wanted to do was surrender to blissful, ignorant sleep, but she knew she could not. Instead she and Alphard left Maranatha's Hollow. With their trunks hovering behind them invisibly, thanks to the aid of Disillusionment Charms, they first stopped at Gringotts. Alphard's vault was overflowing with gold; Hermione tried to not look too impressed. Then again, Alphard could not be too good with money if he thought all that gold would only stretch as far as a few decades. She now partially understood his arrogance: he could do whatever he liked, but no one could take that gold from him now that he was legally an adult in the wizarding world. He'd never have to work a day in his life if he didn't wish to.

After Gringotts, they stocked up on food and various supplies. The sunlight was blisteringly white on the snow as they traipsed to an abandoned corner of Diagon Alley and stared at each other.

"Where to?"

"You'll see," Hermione replied, and grasping his arm, she and Alphard Apparated together, far away from Diagon Alley...far away from Tom.

That night she used _muffliato_ to hide her sobs from Alphard.


	49. 49: In Jest or Earnest

Bad Romance

Author's Note: I cannot thank you guys enough for your reviews. As always, they're super awesome! This chapter is short but hopefully enjoyable all the same.

Disclaimer: I do not own the HP universe; I am just borrowing it.

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><p><strong>Chapter Forty-Nine: In Jest or Earnest<strong>

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><p>Hermione had Apparated them to frozen moorland where she and Harry had stayed for a few weeks during their Horcrux hunt; snowflakes dissolved in the icy whitecaps of the raging grey sea and stung their cheeks every time they ventured out of the tent. Thus far, Alphard had not yet demanded an explanation, for which Hermione was immensely grateful. She was unprepared to supply any explanations, both logically and emotionally. After a long night of stifling her sobs against her familiar pillow, her eyes were puffy and aching and her muscles wound tight as springs, ready to snap at any moment.<p>

Her dreams had been filled with Tom, with his lovely eyes and lovely scent and wicked mouth moving against her skin in the softest of whispers. She had thought that sleeping might free her of her torment but she had never been more wrong before in her life. Hermione woke early and did not allow herself to fall back to sleep, lest she be confronted by the demons of her own desire. Instead she wrapped a blanket around her aching shoulders and sat at the opening of the tent, freezing despite the Warming charm. Still, the frigid air was a welcome sting. She could focus on what was real, what was salient: the sounds of the wind howling across the sea, the waves hurling themselves futilely at the rocky coast, and Alphard's deep and even breathing.

She could almost pretend that it was Harry, not Alphard, lying in the bottom bunk. Certainly his black hair was unruly enough and he had a very similar build to Harry... though lately it was more resembling how Harry looked after each summer at the Dursleys: underfed and overworked. Smiling at the memory of her best friend, Hermione made herself some hot, strong coffee and observed Alphard, his bare arm dangling off the bunk, legs splayed at rather odd angles, lying on his stomach with his face partially buried in the pillow. The covers were drawn up around his waist, and against his pale skin the tattoos seemed to scream at her.

How would things be between them from now on? Could they survive living in a cramped tent with nothing around them but grass, rock, and sea for hundreds of miles?

Before the melancholy set in again, she gulped the rest of the coffee, letting it scald her throat and focusing on the sensation. She had wasted so much time mourning things already: mourning Harry and Ron's deaths, mourning her own failures, mourning Tom... it was time to pull herself together.

"M-m-morning," Alphard said over a yawn, stretching and sitting up on the edge of the bed. "You look terrible," he added, watching Hermione make a hearty breakfast of eggs and kippers for them. Her blanket was still clutched around her shoulders as she clattered pans on the stove, not quite lucid enough to try out her rather shoddy cooking spells.

"Oh, these beds aren't exactly comfortable," Hermione said airily. Truth be told, Alphard did not look so well himself either, though he certainly seemed to have slept soundly through the night. Perhaps his stress and fear were finally catching up to him. Hermione did not comment on it, in her desperation to keep the strained air between them at least somewhat cheerful.

"You said it." He stood up, wincing as his back cracked. "Merlin, what did you _do_ to these things, Hermione? Even the bed at Maranatha's Hollow was cushier."

They ate in awkward silence, both staring out at the storming sea pensively as they chewed. "So, what now?" Alphard finally asked, his voice thick through a mouthful of kipper. Hermione frowned in thought. Thinking of Tom was a necessary evil for plotting her next move. But as she considered following him, finding out where he planned to live after Hogwarts...her heart began to pound against her chest in a raging din. Her eyes began to burn. She was killing him, killing the man she had given her body and heart to so willingly...

...but at least he had never gotten at her mind. He could have everything else, but she'd be _damned_ before he got her mind.

"We'll figure it out later," she finally said, stabbing her last bit of egg with the tin fork and bending one of the tines with the force. Alphard had the decency to not look at all alarmed. "For now, we rest."

"Perfect. I can slack off any day." He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head and whistling. Hermione narrowed her eyes at him shrewdly.

"I am well aware," she said dryly. Alphard shot her a rebellious, daring smirk and she grinned back at him. Perhaps they'd be alright after all.

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><p>It didn't take a trip to the Leaky Cauldron to know that the Mudblood had fled, but Tom checked anyway. He was glad that no one had witnessed his foolish extraneous trip to Diagon Alley. In the pale light of dawn, he swirled his cloak around his shoulders and set off for Knockturn Alley, furtively glancing around. He knew if she were nearby, he'd feel it.<p>

The room at Maranatha's Hollow was empty—Black was gone as well. The only logical conclusion was that they had fled together, though to where, Tom could not predict. Hermione seemed to have a taste for Apparating to unlikely wilderness, so finding them simply by looking was silly. Besides, he knew Hermione: if he waited long enough, she'd come looking for him first.

But that was not a pleasant notion. Impatience surged within Tom—_damn_ Hermione, damn her Occlumency prowess, and most of all, damn Alphard Black. How could she possibly deign to leave with Black after that hideously pitiful display in the brothel? How could she possibly leave with Black...after all they had done?

For a moment, his temper flared beyond his control, and Tom fired a curse at a passing wizard who only just barely dodged in time. After Obliviating the wizard, Tom reprimanded himself for his recklessness, though he was still seeing red and it was rather embarrassing.

Tom returned to his suite, daylight already creeping in, yet he was exhausted. Tom shrugged off his robes and slumped into his four-poster, the scent of Hermione's skin rising from the sheets. She had seen through his plot to use Legilimency on her when she first awakened...yet it had been rather nice, clutching her to him beneath the sheets, knowing that no one else could look at her or touch her while she was his. She had revealed so many inner complexities as they had fucked beside the Chamber's entrance, and then in the brothel... He had seen her deepest inner desire hidden in her eyes as she so wantonly had looked up at him.

Blood warmed his center and he shifted, burying his face in the pillow with an irritated growl. It was time to sleep and rest, _not_ time to let his mind be bothered with recollections of being inside her. His keen mind morphed the images until he could see her lying there, letting weak little Black pound into her. _I wonder if she can even feel it_, he thought cruelly. He also wondered how many of that prostitute's orgasms had been faked... a rather poor performance. Then he was bombarded with memories of Hermione mid-climax and desire flushed his skin.

The knowledge that there was a chance that Black would get to see that delightful spectacle enraged Tom. Worse yet, perhaps now he might never find out Hermione's deepest secrets, and it was these that he so longed to know. How had she _really_ gotten that scar? The pale letters curling over her soft petal-smooth skin were so hauntingly arousing...he let out a groan at the memory of running his tongue over the raised scar tissue. She had gasped and shuddered beneath him, a tantalizing whimper escaping from her soft lips. What if she were telling Black everything, right now?

No. He wanted to be the first to know, just as he had been the first to know Hermione on an intimate level.

_Bide your time. You won't find her if you search now..._ it took all of his might to stop himself from vaulting to the fireplace and leaving the grounds to begin his search. Instead of doing that, he attempted to fall asleep, even while his desire was so unrelenting. Finally he did drift off to sleep, deeply inhaling Hermione's scent as he slept, his fingers curling subconsciously over the place on the pillow where she had rested her head.

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><p>Her calendar told her it was Valentine's Day. She made dinner but she couldn't eat it. Though the companionship between her and Alphard had increased, tonight it fled for the evening. Hermione found herself staring out into the dark night and ghostly swirling snow. They were not in love.<p>

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><p>Weeks passed with little to do, and as such the minutes dragged by as though through molasses. Hermione had owled Garret who had been more than happy to help her communicate in secret with Geoffrey. Rupert and Amelia's wedding was to take place in May, and despite the fact that the snow still piled round their tent, Hermione was already anticipating it. She missed her friends, and in his letters, even Geoffrey once or twice managed to hint that her presence was not entirely disgusting to him.<p>

Slowly, things began to improve between her and Alphard. One blustery sunny day in early March, with the snowdrops beginning to poke out from the melting snow, he announced that they were going to pick up where Geoffrey had left off in teaching Hermione how to properly ride a broomstick. Normally Hermione would not have agreed, but with so little to do and with so much desperation to keep her mind off a certain young Dark Lord, she followed him willingly to the rocky coast.

"Now, let's see you fly in a circle," he instructed, tossing her his broomstick. Hermione grimaced.

"Is it necessary to fly so close to those rocks?" she asked timidly, but Alphard marched over to her and began forcing her onto the broomstick.

"Fear is the greatest motivator," he cheekily reminded her. Hermione let out an awkward squawk as she nearly toppled off the broomstick. Glowering darkly at Alphard, who was doubled-over with laughter, she kicked off, her boots spraying slush around her.

And then she was in the air, the wind chapping her cheeks and whipping her hair wildly. At once Hermione was filled with a freedom she had not felt in a long time and she soared up higher to let out her feelings. For the first time in weeks, she forgot about Tom, about Harry and Ron, about Horcruxes. All that was left was the biting cold sunshine, the crisp fresh air of the moor and the sea, and Alphard's loud laughter below.

She was free. Fluffy clouds soared over the ocean and she even dared to venture out over the rocks...until she looked down and her usual fear of heights tugged her back down to the ground next to Alphard, who was looking highly pleased. "I think that's enough for now, though it went better than I thought it would," she admitted.

"Told you I was better at flying than Potter," he said smugly. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"You didn't even do anything; you just pushed me off the broom! At least Geoffrey taught me the basics," she pointed out, smacking him with the broom. Alphard dodged swiftly, chuckling.

"It's my mere presence. Your very nerves are aware that you are near a being of superior flying skills...and they respond accordingly," he philosophized sardonically as they walked back to the tent to escape the harsh winds for a moment. It may have been sunny but that did not mean that the wintry temperatures had completely let up.

The feeling of exhilarating freedom hadn't let up. Hermione made them steaming mugs of hot chocolate as Alphard straightened up the living area of the tent as was their routine. Her mood stayed as lofty as the clouds, and as Hermione warmed from the cold, her resolved returned with her warmth.

It was time to begin again.


	50. 50: White Wedding

Bad Romance

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay—it's been the week and a half from HELL.

Disclaimer: The HP universe does not belong to me.

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><p><strong>Chapter Fifty: White Wedding<strong>

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><p>As Hermione's friendship with Alphard began to strengthen, she began to trust him more. Their chemistry dissolved and now they were comfortable around each other, which was a relief to Hermione. Often they would sit next to each other on the bottom bunk at night, staring into space and enjoying the companionable silence. Alphard regaled her with stories of his childhood, and Hermione could begin to see the kind of man he would soon become. Growing up in such a volatile family might have scarred most people, but it had equipped Alphard with an unusual sense of humor that was refreshing. The self-centered destructive teenaged boy melted like the snow, leaving a mature and witty young man with a taste for danger and a delight in excitement.<p>

On a blustery night in late April, they were in their usual routine, facing the window and watching the roaring sea as they sipped their tea, occasionally breaking the silence with a mundane remark. However, tonight Alphard did not have something quite so mundane to say. She knew something big was coming when he began to fidget with his chipped mug.

"Been meaning to ask you something," he began. "Why do you have Riddle's diary...and why is there a giant hole in it?" Alphard's voice was of poorly-feigned nonchalance; she could tell he had been rehearsing this for a while. Hermione nearly dropped her tea in surprise. "Please don't lie anymore about this, Hermione," he added warningly.

Hermione did not have an adequate lie conjured up, so she merely told him she would tell him later instead. That night in bed, she reflected on how secretive Harry had been sometimes, and how much pain it had caused her. Had it ever done him any good, to hold his secrets so close to his heart and so hidden from his loved ones? Lying there in bed, listening to Alphard's even breathing, Hermione made a choice. She was going to tell Alphard everything—no holds barred. He was her ally now, whether she liked it or not.

But how could she tell him so much? How could she effectively communicate to him how she had come to be in the wrong era? The answer came quickly: Legilimency. _I'll teach him Legilimency...and then he can read my mind and see it for himself. _

For a few weeks, Hermione trained Alphard in Legilimency. Alphard was clever; it didn't take long for him to pick it up. Along the way, he was piecing together all of the little puzzle pieces he could find when he did manage to break into her mind. She allowed him to see more than she might have if she were truly trying to teach him Legilimency, because her first goal was to impart the whole story on him.

Learning about who Tom would become changed Alphard further. Learning of what was to become of the wizarding world under Tom's rule somehow hardened his brown eyes, and they spent more and more hours each day devoted to Legilimency. He became obsessive—even when they weren't practicing, he would frequently demand further explanation. It wasn't always comfortable to tell him, but Hermione stuck to her resolution to divulge everything. Sometimes he would become quiet. In the middle of the night, she'd wake to him lying next to her, his hand resting on her arm. It was surprisingly subtle comfort, coming from someone as temperamental as Alphard. Their friendship strengthened further because of it.

The night before Rupert and Amelia's wedding, Hermione was standing in front of the mirror, checking to make sure her periwinkle dress robes were at least somewhat acceptable, when Alphard confronted her yet again. She was expecting more questions (he had just learned about the Deathly Hallows) when he surprised her.

"If we're going to stop him, we're going to need to be on the inside," Alphard began. He was sitting at the table, staring at her map of the Horcruxes. "Hanging around in the middle of nowhere in a tent won't get us any closer to Hufflepuff's cup, which is the next target."

"We've already alienated ourselves from him, though. I don't see how we can go back. He knows that I know about the Chamber of Secrets, too." Hermione's current plan was to make heavy use of Harry's Invisibility Cloak, but it was a shaky plan. She was not positive that Tom would be so easily fooled. In fact, she was almost positive he would _not_ be fooled.

"I have an easy way, actually. I've been thinking it through, and I think it should work."

Hermione froze, looking at Alphard's reflection in the mirror as he rose to his feet and approached her. A light was dawning in his eyes. "Marry me."

"I told you—" Hermione began tersely, but Alphard grabbed her shoulders and turned her to face him. He was grinning.

"This isn't about me loving you or whatever. I know it'd never work out with us. But think about it: Riddle just wants followers who will stupidly bend completely to his will but are talented enough at magic and pure-blooded enough to help aid him in his quest. Right?"

"...Right...?" Hermione, for all her brilliance, could not see where on earth this could possibly be going. Alphard had a fanatical gleam in his eyes.

"And I used to be Riddle's favorite because I was rich, but smart—unlike Malfoy or Cygnus. If it hadn't been for all that happened this winter, I'd still probably be his favorite. I did what he told me to do, I came up with ideas to help him further, and in the meantime I happened to have fantastic connections and an endless vault at Gringotts.

"And then, there's the fact that Riddle obviously is obsessed with you. He obviously wants you—" at this, Alphard's voice broke and Hermione's eyes began to sting for reasons she did not want to examine. It took a moment for him to master himself again. "Look. We can't live in a tent forever. I can go back home and beg my parents' forgiveness..."

His plans were beginning to take shape in her mind and a thrill shot through Hermione's body.

"And they think I'm good enough for Tom, which means they'll think I'm perfect for you," she added excitedly. He nodded eagerly.

"So we'll marry. Then, I can return to making use of my influential status, which will attract Riddle's attention. He'll have to decide how to deal with us. He can't let us roam forever, but if he kills us, he doesn't get my inheritance or connections, and he loses you...and let's face it: if he were actually going to kill you, he would have done it ages ago. There's obviously something stopping him from killing you. And whatever it is...we're going to hedge our bets on that."

His grip tightened as they stared at each other. Hermione's heart was fluttering madly in her chest. Finally she spoke.

"You're right," she agreed reluctantly, her voice shaking a bit. "So we crawl back to him, pretending that roaming the wilderness has made us see the light. We beg for forgiveness from him and beg him to let us join him—"

"No, because he knows your bloodstatus. He knows you're too moral to agree with his point of view," he reasoned.

Alphard began pacing as he spoke, gesturing with his hands. "We make it look like I forced you to marry me, and you only agreed because you feared you had nowhere else to go and were humiliated by the truth of your blood-status."

"And so you'll join him, and that will mean that I have to as well because we're married now," said Hermione. Alphard nodded.

"The marriage will most certainly evoke the jealousy in Riddle—the part of him that hates to lose to anyone—and we make it look like he can have you... if he just lets us close enough."

"You're using me as bait?" The feminist part of Hermione's brain reared at the idea of being used in such a way and she glowered at Alphard, her hands on her hips.

"You're the only bait—besides immortality—that seems to work on him," he said plainly. "He left Hogwarts to chase after you all those times, didn't he? I'll bet the only reason he hasn't found us yet is that he's convinced you'll turn up sooner or later. Imagine how angry he'll be when he finds out you won't be turning up for him after all..."

It seemed a perfect plan. Hermione could not sleep that night as she stared at the ceiling of the tent, imagining all of the possible outcomes. She had to admit that Alphard's strategic abilities had impressed her. Still, she pictured herself approaching Alphard, and she was faced with the realization that she would not be marrying for love like she had always thought. She would be marrying because it was a strategic move.

When she finally did drift off, her dreams were fragmented with memories of Minerva's failed wedding, and old nightmares that had strangely morphed into lost dreams. She would approach the altar and see Tom's back to her. Her heart would leap up and she would quicken her stride down the aisle, hardly able to stand being even a few metres from him... and then he'd turn and it would be Alphard, and her heart would shatter anew.

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><p>"I'm so nervous," Amelia squeaked for what was probably the three-hundredth time. Hermione rolled her eyes good-naturedly at the Hufflepuff girl as she adjusted her veil.<p>

Amelia was looking more radiant than Hermione had ever seen her, in fitted silk robes of snow white. The engagement ring practically glowed on her hand, but what glowed most of all was Amelia's smile.

After meeting Geoffrey in Hogsmeade, they had Apparated together to this little cottage by the sea, where a family friend of Rupert's was performing the ceremony. He was a little old man named Herald Chimicles who lived with his wife Vera, and they had agreed to keep the marriage a secret from Rupert's parents for now. In one of the guest bedrooms overlooking the ocean, Hermione and Amelia had spent the morning preparing Amelia for the ceremony and catching up.

"It's almost time," Hermione said, glancing at the clock. Amelia let out a terrified shriek and buried her face in her hands.

"I'm getting married. I'm going to be Amelia Weasley. Oh, I just can't believe it!"

"Hurry up, ladies!" Geoffrey called rather indelicately from the other side of the door. Hermione gave Amelia a bracing smile.

"You look so beautiful, Amelia," she reassured her friend. Amelia returned Hermione's smile, albeit a bit watery, and they left the little bedroom.

Vera had conjured an archway of white roses that Mr. Chimicles and Rupert were waiting under. Rupert would not stop bouncing from one foot to the other, despite Geoffrey repeatedly swatting at him to cease the activity. Hermione grinned and urged Amelia out of the cottage as they began the walk to the archway.

Amelia and Rupert only had eyes for each other, and the sight made Hermione's heart ache. Such happiness held a certain melancholy—would she ever walk down the aisle towards a man she loved? _Stop it. You're being unbelievably selfish, _she scolded herself. Remembering how much she adored both Amelia and Rupert made her forget her own sadness. She truly beamed as she walked Amelia down the aisle along to the music coming from a flute that Mrs. Chimicles had charmed to play on its own.

"I now pronounce you man and wife," Mr. Chimicles finally said. Tears were streaming down Amelia's cheeks as she gazed at Rupert; they were both barely able to wait for the inevitable words: "You may kiss the bride."

"Oh, Merlin. Let's hope they keep it short and sweet," Geoffrey grumbled under his breath as Amelia threw her arms around Rupert, who was angling his lips over hers lovingly.

Hermione's eyes were wet but they were from joy. _Someday, that'll be you. Just not today_, she thought, wiping the tears away. After all of the darkness that she had been living in for so long, seeing such unbridled love and romance was strangely heartening. Geoffrey rolled his eyes, muttered something a bit rude about girls and crying, and irritably Conjured her a handkerchief as they followed the newlyweds and Mr. and Mrs. Chimicles back into the cottage.

After thanking the Chimicles for everything, the group went to Diagon Alley to celebrate at the Leaky Cauldron. Festivities lasted late into the evening. Bottle after bottle of elder wine was opened and consumed. Finally, Rupert and Amelia drunkenly hauled themselves off to the honeymoon room they had booked for the night, leaving Geoffrey and Hermione to sit at the booth together.

"I have to tell you something," Hermione confessed with an uneasy grin at Geoffrey. He was currently very drunk and was uncommonly fascinated by the action of peeling the label off the bottle of wine.

"Some of the paper always sticks," he grumbled sourly before looking up at her briefly. "What do you want?" He took a long sip of his own wine, polishing off the rest of that bottle as he waited for her to speak.

"I'm getting married."

Geoffrey promptly choked on his wine.

"What in the bloody name of Merlin are you talking about? Who'd marry you?" he slurred rudely. Hermione grinned.

"I can't tell you yet."

"Whatever. I thought you said you didn't want to marry," he mused with the unique philosophical air that was a sure symptom of inebriation. "I guess something changed, then?"

Hermione stared thoughtfully out the window of the pub. She had spotted Alphard passing; he had agreed to meet her in Diagon Alley to Apparate back to the tent with her. His job for the day had been to return back to his home and beg for his parents' forgiveness; she wondered how it had gone. Soon she would be Hermione Black—and of all the possible surnames she had ever thought she might have attached to her first name, Black was probably in competition with Malfoy for the least likely name.

"...Everything changed, actually."


	51. 51: Toujours Pur

Bad Romance

Author's Note: As usual, thanks for all the lovely reviews :)

Disclaimer: the HP universe does not belong to me.

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><p><strong>Chapter Fifty-One: Toujours Pur<strong>

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><p>After assuring that Geoffrey had made it back to Hogwarts in one—albeit drunken—piece, Hermione stumbled out into the balmy May evening, a bit less than sober herself and feeling bittersweetly cheered by the day's events. On the cobblestone road outside, Alphard was pacing, his cheeks flushed with happiness. The many lights in Diagon Alley were still on; soon they'd turn off for the night. Hermione noted he was wearing fresh, expensive-looking robes, and something was clutched in his palm.<p>

"How did it go?" Hermione asked breathlessly as she met him on the road. Then again, there was no way it could have possibly been unsuccessful. She hadn't seen Alphard looking so confident and pleased with himself in months. Alphard bit his lip as he grinned broadly at her.

"Mum didn't take it too well—till I told her I was marrying you."

"And then?"

"She was thrilled. Tomorrow she insists on meeting you...though I think we ought to also pick a new home tomorrow so we don't have to move in with my parents." At this idea, Alphard shuddered and Hermione laughed.

"So it's all coming together then," she murmured. Something sank like a stone in her heart. Still, Alphard stepped closer, and gripped her hands, surprising her. He dropped down on one knee, and his right fist uncurled to reveal a very old-looking silver ring with engravings on it. With her mind slightly fogged by the elder wine, Hermione could appreciate how other girls might've died of happiness at the sight that was greeting her eyes now: handsome, rich, clever Alphard, down on one knee in splendid robes, a most propitious family ring sitting in his smooth palm.

"Hermione—" he began, but she cut in.

"Wait. I just want to be sure of one thing."

For the first time in months, tension was strung between them, ever-tautening. Hermione gazed down at Alphard's brown eyes—how innocent they looked now, yet how devious she had seen them look! "This is about us working together, right? Because if it's about your feelings..."

She had not wanted to broach such a controversial topic between them. By the flashing in Alphard's eyes, she suspected she was treading on _quite_ thin ice.

"Hermione, I'm helping you with this goal of yours and you have the nerve to ask me about my feelings right now? When I'm proposing?" he demanded coldly.

The atmosphere between them was hideous now. Perhaps it had been hideous all these months, buried under layers of hoping and wishing, like the glittering snow that had been so piled high around them on the highlands? Or, perhaps, it was just morphing into something ugly now? She couldn't tell. She felt dizzy and tired, and really just wanted to be surrounded by fact. She had been immersed in feeling for so long now—heartbreak, desire, love, grief—that all she wanted were her facts. Her cold, hard logic.

"Yes, Alphard, I have the nerve," she replied acidly, folding her arms across her chest. Her periwinkle robes fluttered around her in the late night balmy breeze that passed through Diagon Alley, the promise of summer hot on its heels. "This is something I deserve to know. We're going to have to be honest and open with each other if we want to make this work."

"Honesty? You want to talk to me about honesty?" Alphard rose to his feet as he gave a callous, disbelieving laugh. Hermione's stomach clenched in anxiety. This conversation was going even worse than she had expected it might, and thanks to the elder wine she had had, she did not have her wits about her as much as usual. "Hermione, _I've_ been straightforward with you. _You're_ the one who hasn't been honest."

The blood drained from Hermione's face—she felt she might faint.

"What do you mean?"

Alphard circled her, his expression flinty and filled with a cold, harsh humor.

"You think," he began in a whisper, "that I don't know you're still in love with him? Even though you say it's over, even though you're working against him—working to bloody _kill_ him—you still love him, Hermione. I know you do.

"So don't try to talk to me about honesty. You have all these bloody Gryffindor values, but they're bullshit because you adhere to none of them. You talk about bravery, but you can't even face your feelings for him. You talk about honesty, but you can't even be honest with me about how you still love him."

"You're being unfair," she said in a low voice as he circled round to face her again. "You're always unfair. I can't help my feelings. I'm waiting for them to go away. Why do you always hit below the belt?" Her voice was rising, higher, becoming shrill. Alphard smirked at her.

"Why do you?" he countered. "You're not as different from me or Riddle as you'd like to think. You're just as dishonest, just as scheming, just as conniving. Why run from who you really are?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him.

"Because that's not who I am. Withholding the truth is not equal to lying, and only a fool believes them to be the same thing. Letting myself chase after Riddle would be the real lie. I don't feel I need to explain myself further. Now, are we doing this or not?"

They stared hard at each other. Finally, Alphard spoke.

"If you withhold your truths, I'll withhold mine," he finally said quietly. Hermione clenched her fists to release some of her tension.

"So this _is_ partially about your feelings," she deduced hotly, her cheeks flushing again. "I don't see why you fancy yourself actually being in love with me. I don't think it's about _me_ at all. I think it's about you—you, and Riddle. And frankly, your insecurities are exhausting. You're a great person, Alphard. You're really clever, you're handsome, you're rich, and you have more money than I ever dreamed of having. If we're going to do this, you need to get past your inferiority complex."

"You don't think I'm great. You think Riddle's great," he said bitterly. "Ow!"

Hermione had slapped him without thinking, and retracted her hand, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and pride.

"You deserved that. We both know what Riddle will become, and I'm disgusted that you could ever even utter such an idea out loud, to me of all people."

Alphard looked shocked, his brown eyes wide as he stared at her. She stared defiantly back, almost daring him with her eyes to get mad. Hermione expected him to sulk, to yell, to run off, but she didn't expect him to grin, holding a hand to his cheek as he stared at her.

"Wait a minute. So you _do_ think I'm handsome, then?" he asked cheekily. Hermione rolled her eyes. Suddenly, the awful, ugly tension between them had disappeared. "I knew it. You couldn't take your eyes off my body when I showed you my tattoos."

"Perhaps because you were pointing to something directly on your body?" Hermione asked witheringly. They both began to laugh. It felt like the air had been cleared between them. "Really, Alphard, I think everything would change for you if you just could work past all your insecurity. You're instrumental in this plan—I mean, you even came up with it, which is impressive—and you've seen how Sirius views you in the future."

"Yeah, I always knew I'd be the cool one in the Black family," Alphard agreed with no hint of humility or modesty. "Too bad he had to copy me completely."

Hermione playfully swatted at him and, with lightning-fast reflexes, Alphard caught her hand in his, smirking at her. He did not let go of her hand as he spoke. "Okay, so maybe I'm not madly in love with you, but I will admit I still want to shag you senseless." Hermione blushed hotly at this even as she glared at him. "But the main reason I want this is because I..." he paused, his smirk melting away as he became serious, "I want to stop him. For personal and moral reasons."

He splayed her fingers across her hand. Hermione's heart was beginning to pound. "So will you marry me, and become the first—and last, probably— Mudblood Black ever?"

His cheeky use of such a foul word made her snigger along with him.

"With a proposal like that, how can I say no?" she asked dryly. Alphard's mouth twitched and he slid the ancient ring onto her ring finger slowly.

"Welcome to the Black family, Hermione," he said in a low, wicked voice. He added more sarcastically: "_Toujours pur_, darling."

* * *

><p><em>Dear Cygnus,<em>

_Your brother finally came back last evening. As usual he was too cocky to come back with his tail between his legs, but isn't that what we love about Alphard? I will admit I was most displeased with him, until he announced that he was planning on getting a job at the Ministry (well, politics aside, your father has done well there, so it's nothing to be too ashamed of) and marrying a girl. Funny enough, it was one I've already met, which is most surprising. _

_Perhaps you know her. Her name is Hermione Macmillan—pureblood, naturally—and apparently she had the highest scores in her year at Hogwarts. I met her this winter in Paris, when young Tom Riddle introduced me to her. Alphard apparently stole her heart from Tom and swept her off her feet. These past few months, he told me he'd been attempting to win her over. Her family's from America, and according to Alphie they are nothing short of disgusted that she's forgoing her birth betrothal to marry Alphard, in spite of his pure blood and many attractive qualities. _

_We've already decided they will marry in Autumn, since Walburga's wedding festivities will be taking up so much time this summer. They stopped by yesterday. Even though she is a Gryffindor, I rather like her. Her robes were from this designer in Paris that I favor, which shows she has superb taste. They're moving into an estate nearby Malfoy Manor—naturally you'll know exactly the one I'm talking of—and today they make the arrangements to move in. _

_Be sure to congratulate your brother, Cygnus. We all knew he'd come back sooner or later, but I would never have guessed it would be on such excellent terms. _

_-Mother_

Cygnus read and reread the letter over at least ten times, though his eyes refused to quite comprehend the elegant, spiky script that was his mother's quite familiar handwriting.

"Alright there, Black?" Avery jeered from across the Slytherin table. Cygnus blanched and his eyes involuntarily jerked to Lord Voldemort. He didn't miss the motion, of course, and leant closer.

"What's wrong, Black? Mummy cutting back on your allowance?" Lestrange added. Cygnus ignored them and swallowed. He couldn't hide it forever—eventually Avery and Lestrange's parents would inform them, one way or another, of the upcoming nuptials between Alphard and the mudblood. And that would mean Lord Voldemort would find out, and then he'd realize Cygnus had been hiding it from him all along. As his eyes met Voldemort's, he shivered. Voldemort's dark eyes always gave him the peculiar notion that he could read his mind.

"Y-you should read this, m-my Lord," he stammered quietly, handing Voldemort the parchment and breaking the eye contact. Voldemort's long, elegant fingers grasped the parchment and he snatched it impatiently from Cygnus, scanning it quickly.

Cygnus did not miss the way his other hand clenched around his wand in an ominous fist so tight, his knuckles were bleached of the little color that had been in them.

"How amusing. It seems Alphard is growing up after all," said Voldemort in a dangerous soft voice. "Meeting tonight, same place as usual. Midnight."

Voldemort swept out of the Great Hall, his meal untouched, leaving the boys to glance between each other fearfully. The letter from Irma lay open, a bit crumpled, on the table. Haltingly, Malfoy reached for it first, much to everyone's surprise.

"I saw my name on it," he explained as he read through it. "Oh, no."

"Oh no is right," said Cygnus tersely.

"What's going on?" Avery demanded.

"Cyg's older brother is marrying the Macmillan girl," Malfoy said darkly. Avery and Lestrange's faces both became shadowed with fear. "He's not going to like that."

"I don't think he is," Lestrange agreed, shuddering.

Somehow, Cygnus got the impression he was going to be the one to bear the brunt of Voldemort's rage. He was dreading the meeting tonight more than he ever had dreaded something in his life. For the first time ever, he wished his classes would never end. Even Potions, his worst subject, seemed to fly by. The hands on the many clocks in Hogwarts—he had never realized there were so very many of them!—seemed to speed up quite disobligingly. Cygnus considered running, but it was futile. A part of him knew that wherever he went, Voldemort would find him. And then the punishment would be even worse.

Midnight approached, and Cygnus tried to pretend he wasn't about to be Crucio'd within an inch of his life. He tried to hope that Voldemort would find a way to take his anger out on Alphard or the mudblood. Deep down he knew that while they might be punished later, for now Voldemort would use his followers as an outlet.

It had been this way ever since the mudblood had run off with his older brother. Voldemort had never exactly been temperate, but now Cygnus and the others had come to expect that punishment and pain were always round the bend. Every little thing seemed to anger him. Still, to the rest of the world, Voldemort had gained even more cache, so Cygnus could not rid himself of his admiration for the older boy. Voldemort got him out of trouble every time one of the other prefects wanted to give him detention. He got his professors to exhibit leniency on him when his grades had dropped startlingly close to the point of failing. He couldn't rid his life of Voldemort because he simply did not want to.

But that didn't change the fear that was suffocating him as he made his way through the warm evening air to the Forbidden Forest.

Voldemort was waiting for them already. How in Merlin's name did he always manage to get there so fast? He was pacing in their usual clearing, shrouded mostly in darkness. When he stopped and turned to the group of young men, the moonlight illuminated his angelic features, and momentarily Cygnus forget his fear as his awe of Lord Voldemort took over. _Wish I could look half that cool,_ Cygnus thought miserably.

"Knights," Tom greeted briskly. The others arranged themselves around Tom as he addressed them.

"My Lord," they all spoke, bowing deeply.

"My Lord, if it is the girl you want—"

"Silence, Avery," said Voldemort harshly, silencing him with a careless swipe of his wand. "Don't be so absurd. I do not wish for the girl in the slightest. We must congratulate the newlyweds, of course." There was a sugary sweetness to his soft voice that set Cygnus on edge even more than his anger.

"C-congratulate, my Lord?" Malfoy stammered in confusion. "But I thought—"

"Black owled me today, apologizing for his disobedience," Voldemort explained, beginning to pace again. His black robes billowed around him impressively with every little movement. He radiated power without even trying. "Naturally, I was disinclined to forgive him without some proof of his true loyalties. We must think of some little test for dear Alphard."

Voldemort turned to Cygnus swiftly, his dark eyes trained on him chillingly like black ice. "What do you think, Black? After all, he is your brother. What would be the greatest proof of his loyalty?"

"I don't know, my Lord," Cygnus muttered, looking down. Voldemort laughed softly.

"Well, you'll just have to think of a suitable test then, Black." His voice was like cool silk. Cygnus tried not to shudder.

"Yes, my Lord." It seemed he had made it through this meeting without being tortured, and he let out a sigh of relief as they all turned and began picking their way through the forest.

"Oh, Cygnus, I almost forget," added Voldemort casually. Cygnus turned just in time for the fire and ice of the Cruciatus Curse to hit him full-force. As he let out strangled, inhuman shrieks of pain, Cygnus reflected on his growing hatred for his brother.

As his limbs jerked and twitched in agony under the sensation of the fibers of his body being ripped apart repeatedly, Cygnus resolved that next time, he would not miss the chance to murder Alphard once and for all.

* * *

><p>No matter how many times he cast the Cruciatus Curse, Tom's unreasonable anger did not abate. Cygnus' horrific shrieks stretched past the woods and beyond, but it was unsatisfying. Tom toyed with the possibility of wiping the looks of relief off the other men's faces and setting the Curse on them, but really, what good would it do?<p>

He lifted the curse and wordlessly swept past the other men and back to the castle. What would relieve him of this anger, of this rage?

Irma Black's spiky script seemed to bleed into his mind's eye.

**_"Alphard apparently stole her heart from Tom and swept her off her feet."_**

It had never hurt before.

* * *

><p>"Back again," Pugsley greeted Alphard's familiar face as he furtively entered the tattoo parlor. "It's addictive, isn't it, mate?"<p>

"You have no idea," said Alphard sardonically.

"What'll it be this time?"

Alphard's grin was cheeky as he shrugged off his dark green robes, revealing his lean, wiry chest.

"Right here, over my heart," he began, gesturing to his pectoral.

This tattoo was the simplest of the ones Alphard had gotten. When Pugsley stepped back a little bit later to admire his work, he shared a grin with Alphard.

In elegant script, _toujours impur_ was scrolled across the young man's heart.


	52. 52: The Engagement

Bad Romance

Author's Note: Thanks for all of the well-wishes from two chapters ago. It was just a very busy week, but luckily the work has evened out a bit and I am feeling quite awesome :) And FINALLY, this chapter has Tomione interaction :)

Disclaimer: The HP universe does not belong to me.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Fifty-Two: The Engagement <strong>

* * *

><p>"So this is home now. Weird, isn't it?"<p>

Alphard's voice bounced off of the icy marble floors. Inside of this frigid vestibule, it was impossible to tell that outside, summer was around the corner, the bright sun beating down from a cerulean blue sky on fresh green grass. It may as well have been the dead of winter. Heavy dark evergreen-colored drapes blocked the floor-to-ceiling windows that might have otherwise let in light. The decor was beautiful but cold, and Hermione personally preferred cozy warmth, like the Burrow, to such frigid perfection.

The walls were a pale olive green that rose up to elaborately coffered high ceilings, with crystal chandeliers occasionally sending glimmers of prisms about the room. Hermione shivered, wrapping her arms around her body for heat. How was it that just a few moments ago, walking up the path to the front door, she had been sweating so heavily under her dark green robes that the cloth had been plastered to her skin uncomfortably?

"It's like a mausoleum," she said distastefully. Alphard sniggered as he walked past a grand piano and absently plunked his fingers down on the keys, the chaotic noise echoing about the enormous drawing room.

"Fitting for the model Death Eater couple, though, isn't it? Come on, let's look upstairs."

He grabbed her hand and pulled her up the front staircase, which was an oversized marble affair with silver railings. Upon closer inspection, each baluster proved to be a thin, delicately carved serpent winding its way up to the banister. Tiny rubies glinted in each serpent's eyes.

"It must have cost a fortune," Hermione said doubtfully, following him up the stairs, her shoes clacking on the marble. Alphard turned back to her and smirked.

"The odd thing about being filthy rich is that you rarely have to pay for anything," said the Slytherin boy cryptically. Hermione frowned but decided she'd determine exactly what he meant by that later. For now, he was leading her in and out of rooms more fabulous than the last, although all were just as uninviting as the drawing room had been. Finally, they came to the master bedroom suite.

It was at the very end of the hall on the third floor. Behind a carved door with a crystal handle was a long hallway with plush emerald carpeting. Gilded mirrors stood along the corridor, intermingled with floor-to-ceiling windows mostly masked by heavy emerald velvet drapes. Slivers of summer sunshine made their way into the corridor, refracting off the mirrors and giving the hallway a sparkling feel.

Inside was an enormous canopy bed of mahogany and more emerald velvet. This room was so overly decorated with gilding, crystal, and emerald velvet that Hermione felt she might suffocate in it. The walls were covered with an ivory silk that cast the room in a sort of melancholy beauty.

A thought occurred to Hermione: would she and Alphard be sharing a bed? Considering the enormity of this mansion, it wasn't as though they had to worry about having enough room. But would it seem...ungrateful, perhaps, to not share a bed with him? _No way. I am not sharing a bed with him_, she thought stubbornly.

"I still can't believe this is happening," murmured Hermione as she sank down onto a dark cherry chair that was trimmed with a silvery-green brocade. Alphard knelt beside her, grinning.

"I think there's a library in here somewhere. You can have it to set up your stuff for your mission. We can plan there." He laced his fingers with hers. Her engagement ring glinted in the light. "We need to get servants—"

"No house-elves," warned Hermione, and Alphard rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

"Fine," he sighed. "No house-elves, Lady Black."

"Oh, so you're Lord Black now?" Hermione teased. Alphard chuckled and rose to his feet.

"I can't decide if I should be Lord Black or Master Black," he said thoughtfully as he strolled about the room, examining the finery scattered about. "I already thought of our family motto."

"I thought it was Toujours Pur?"

Alphard scoffed at this.

"No, silly girl. We need our own, since we're not living in my mother's estate. Look, here's our motto." He turned and unfastened his robes. Hermione dryly wondered if Alphard could stand to keep his robes on for more than five minutes as she was greeted with his bare wiry chest. She gasped at the fresh tattoo surrounded by red angry skin. **_Toujours Impur _**was scrolled over his heart in elegant script.

"Oh, very funny. I'm sure you thought that was exceedingly clever, didn't you?"

"I did," said Alphard a bit bossily. He pulled his robes back on. "If you're a good girl, I'll let you look at it again later."

"Oh will you?" Hermione asked in a fake-girlish voice, batting her lashes at him. They sniggered at each other before continuing their exploration of the house, though Hermione was filled with worry for several reasons. Surrounded by all of this splendor made their plan seem so finalized. The Black family ring felt heavy on her hand; she felt she might be drowning in the robes that she had picked out to impress Alphard's mother. They were well-made and heavy, and laced tightly, constricting her breathing slightly. She was eager to change into something more comfortable.

Somehow they came to the unspoken agreement that they would sleep in separate rooms. It had just sort of happened, and it was a relief to Hermione. Still, there was something depressing about crawling into bed on one's own when one was indeed wearing a ring. Shaking off her melancholy, Hermione borrowed the owl Alphard had retrieved from his home, and sat at the dark cherry desk in her room, staring out at the starry evening sky.

_Dear Geoffrey,_

_How did you recover from your hangover? I was wondering if we could meet sometime in the near future, perhaps in Hogsmeade or something. I have a lot to tell you and I have something important to ask of you. I really miss you and Rupert and Amelia, and I'm sorry for having to leave Hogwarts._

_Love,_

_Hermione_

Hermione tied the letter to the owl's talon and watched it swoop off into the night, disappearing past the black silhouette of enormous trees. When she could no longer see it, she crawled back under the heavy blankets and silk sheets of the canopy bed, trying to grow accustomed to the buzzing silence. Usually she had the rustling of trees, the distant roar of the sea, and Alphard's even breathing to break the silence. But Alphard was several rooms away, and she felt as isolated as if she were on a remote island.

She was lonely and confused. All she wanted was for this plan to work, but the more she thought of it, the more she realized that this was the stupidest plan she had ever agreed to in her life—and thanks to Harry and Ron, she had agreed to some _very_ stupid plans in her time. This, however, took the cake. Why had she ever thought they could get away with this? Tom would see through them immediately.

Or, perhaps, she thought grimly as she stared at the emerald velvet, she simply wanted Tom to see through them. She wanted him to stop the wedding, she wanted him to claim her as his own. _And this is sure proof that you are a sick and twisted human being_, she chastised herself. But it didn't take away from the ache in her heart. She wished that they had had more time together. Recalling the night she had spent in his arms made her mind fog up until it was difficult—in fact, damn near impossible—to remember her purpose.

They had only had a few months together. Why hadn't she enjoyed it more? Hermione berated herself for feeling so guilty at the time for enjoying Tom's attention. She had known it would all come to an end anyway, so why had she not made the most of it? She remembered his lips moving against hers on Halloween, remembered his tongue against her inner wrist, remembered his voice on the shell of her ear as they had waltzed.

"Hermione?"

Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of her voice. Alphard was standing in the doorway, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"Alphard, you scared me. What's going on?"

"I heard an owl." Yawning, he came into the room and absently waved his wand, lighting a few candles. "Sleeping in this house is creepy. I almost miss the tent."

"Me too. It's so quiet," agreed Hermione, shifting over so that Alphard could have a spot to sit down on. He was wearing a pair of loose-fitting black cotton pants to sleep in, showcasing his inky black tattoos.

For a moment, they were silent, both just staring into space and getting lost in thought. Finally, Alphard surprised her again by extinguishing the candles. She expected him to leave, but instead he turned on his side and pulled the covers over him before turning over and drawing her close to him. "What are you doing?" she asked, attempting to wiggle out of Alphard's arms, but he tightened his hold.

"You've got to stop thinking about him, Hermione," said Alphard into her hair.

"I'm not—"

"You are. Who did you send that owl to?"

"Geoffrey, to tell him we're getting married," said Hermione tartly. "And anyway, when are we going to tell him?"

"When we send out invitations for the engagement party, obviously. Now go to sleep."

"I will when you get out of my bed."

Alphard made no move to let go of her. "Alphard, why are you in my bed?"

"Because my room is creepy," he complained. "At least at my parents' house there were a few ghouls around to make some noise when things got too quiet. We need to get our own ghouls."

"I'll get right on that," Hermione said dryly, rolling her eyes. "I cannot believe you're afraid of the dark."

"I'm not! I just think that room is creepy, and you're in this one."

"Okay, you can stay in here, but we're not— we're not _cuddling_."

With a long-suffering sigh, Alphard finally let go and rolled over. After a while, his deep, even breathing became a comfort to Hermione, and her eyelids finally grew heavier, signaling that sleep was almost upon her.

Just when she was in that peculiar state between waking and sleeping, she felt something warm against her back, and snaking around her hips. Hermione's sleepy brain tried to process what was going on, but all she registered was the feel of someone pressed against her back, a hand at her abdomen, holding her close. Sensing no immediate danger, Hermione drifted into sleep.

* * *

><p>Over the next few weeks, becoming a married woman consumed Hermione's time. She never did find out how Alphard had gotten the enormous manor, but she guessed at a very well-done Confundus charm. Under different circumstances, she would never have turned a blind eye to such a deed, but this time Hermione decided to view it as a lucky break. Every day was filled with sending out invitations, picking out decorations with Irma, and in general setting up her new life. Alphard had gotten a job at the Ministry that involved a lot of socializing, so Hermione spent several days interviewing servants on her own, as she refused to have House Elves. When Irma agreed that they weren't fashionable and rarely did the work correctly, Hermione kept her mouth shut despite her blood boiling in rage. She was going to be doing a lot of that in the years to come.<p>

And soon, she and Alphard were eating dinner at the long table in the dining room every evening, with servants coming and going with mouth-watering dishes. They would make small-talk over dinner—_how was your day, dear?_ that sort of thing—and then retire to the library where the servants were ordered to not disturb them.

In the library each night, they would spend hours plotting and planning and strategizing. The fruits of their labor became visible when, after Hogwarts graduation, Tom and Alphard got in touch again. Alphard had been begging for Tom's forgiveness, and finally it seemed Tom had relented. Alphard was back in the inner circle, though Hermione wondered just how much Tom believed of Alphard's story.

It was a blustery evening in late June when the engagement party was held. It wasn't the first reunion of the original Death Eaters since graduation, but it seemed significant—probably because Hermione was seeing Tom for the very first time in months.

In the days leading up to the engagement party, Hermione didn't know what to do with herself. She was restless and slept and ate little. Thankfully Alphard had the sense not to comment on the change in habits, especially since they were still occupying the same bed. It was a routine which they had fallen into, and one that Hermione found no reason to _not_ tolerate. They were married, after all, and she was making use of his surname and bank account for her plans. And though Alphard never expressly made a move, she got the vague sense that he was holding back, or merely biding his time.

"No need to be nervous. You're perfectly acceptable as a bride for my son," Irma consoled her unconvincingly the evening of the party. She was 'helping' Hermione dress for the engagement party, which was being held at the Black estate, where Alphard had grown up. She, Irma, and Walburga were in one of the many opulent guest suites, a room bedecked in rich velvet and dark wood. Hermione stood in front of the mirror as Irma circled her, vulture-like, adjusting aspects of Hermione's clothing. Irma had picked out form-fitting emerald robes for her and Hermione was tired of seeing emerald everywhere she went.

What Irma didn't know was that the prospect of seeing Tom was making Hermione nearly faint with nerves.

"Almost time," Walburga announced as the bewitched grandfather clock chimed seven o'clock. Hermione anxiously pressed her clammy palms to the fabric that skimmed over her hips.

"We'll come fetch you when guests arrive. It's so embarrassing to be on time to a party," Irma drawled as the two Black women sauntered out of the suite, leaving Hermione on her own.

For all of their planning, Hermione still had no idea of how to act around Tom. The last time she had seen him, they had made love in a brothel next to her fiancee. Hermione smirked at the irony of the situation—humor was her only comfort at this time.

Even from the remote suite she could hear the sounds of the music and the laughing of guests. Her heart thrummed a steady tattoo upon her ribcage as she stood in front of the enormous silver mirror, pressing her hand to her mouth to quell the nausea building up. _Tom._

At long last, a house elf was sent to fetch her. Hermione took a last long look at her reflection. _Hermione Macmillan, soon-to-be Hermione Black._ With her hair pulled back in a severe chignon, the blood red lip color, and the emerald choker to match her robes, she certainly looked the part. But she still felt like Hermione Granger, and the disconnect between her inner identity and her appearance shook her.

The house elf disappeared as Hermione reached the enormous front staircase. In the front area of the house, people that she had never met before milled about, clutching crystal glasses of the finest elder wine. _All pure-bloods. I wonder how it would feel to find out that their beloved Alphard's fiancee is a mudblood of the worst type?_

"Here she is," Irma announced, magically magnifying her voice as Hermione lifted the heavy skirts of her robes to walk down the stairs. Immediately her eyes alighted on Tom. He was standing with Alphard and Abraxas, and at that moment her throat seemed to constrict. The music, the talking, the people—they all melted away. She could not read the expression on Tom's face; it was a perfect deathmask to her. Yet his shadow-colored eyes were flashing with something, freezing her momentarily, one hand gripping the banister, the other still clenching the fabric of her skirts.

What was there to communicate with their eyes? She thought she had longed for Ron, she thought she had shared passion with Tom and even with Alphard. But this...this moment was different. How would it feel to see him on her wedding day, as she spoke her vows to Alphard, able to simultaneously look upon Tom?

She had never before been filled with such longing.

"This is Hermione Macmillan, my fiancee," Alphard explained as Hermione stepped down the stairs. There was clapping, and Tom's lips twitched along with hers. _One hundred Pure-bloods clapping so eagerly for a no-name Mudblood._ It was hilarious, really.

She waited for him to approach her the entire evening. She was introduced to more people than she could keep track of. Alphard played his part perfectly, and she played hers just as well. For all of the awkwardness of her teen years, Hermione found she could charm and delight just as well as Tom himself. Still he did not approach her, though often their eyes met across the room. His silence was excruciating.

As the evening was in full-swing, Hermione began to feel he was just going to ignore her. _It's better this way. Now you don't have to decide how to act. You can't possibly mess it up if you don't talk to him._

"Alright, 'Mione?" Alphard leaned into her and muttered in her ear in a low, private tone. His cheeks were flushed with too much elder wine and Hermione fought against stepping away reflexively.

"Yes, I'm fine," she replied unsteadily. Alphard pulled back and studied her heavily.

"You're miserable," he murmured. Hermione's voice was no longer working, and she just offered a weak smile. _Why isn't he speaking to me?_ "You wish he'd talk to you," he continued. There was a resigned quality to his voice that was heartbreaking. Again she could not reply.

Alphard sighed, regarding her with a heavy stare, before he leaned in again, pressing himself against her intimately. "I know how to get him over here," he whispered. His hand tightened on her arm and he pressed his lips to her temple. The gesture was so private and intimate, despite seeming innocent, that Hermione blushed. "Knew it."

When Alphard drew away, Hermione was greeted with the sight of Abraxas being led by Tom over to them.

"I never did get to congratulate the lovely lady," mused Tom.

"I noticed. I'm a bit offended," jested Hermione. She prided herself on how steady, how light her voice was. It completely masked the pain she felt at this interaction.

"I hope my engagement present makes up for it. Black, mind if I borrow your fiancee for a moment?"

"Not at all," said Alphard, raising his glass of elder wine to show his acquiescence. Hermione's eyes widened at Alphard meaningfully, but he turned away pointedly and drew Malfoy in for small-talk.

Hermione and Tom stared at each other.

"It's nice outside. Come," he ordered, and without waiting for a response, grasped her wrist and began leading her through the throngs of chatting guests. They slipped out of the drawing room and through the large kitchen, where servants and house elves were cooking and cleaning in a hurricane of activity. They went unnoticed and wound their way to the kitchen door, leading out to the very private kitchen garden.

The night air was balmy, and the scent of herbs heavy around them. It was late now; the stars were out. The sounds of the party and the kitchen faded away and they were left alone in their private universe, the night breeze through the trees as the only noise. They were staring at each other; Hermione could think of nothing to say that would convey everything she was feeling. And what was the point of such sentiments, at any rate? This was Lord Voldemort. To differentiate between Voldemort and Tom Riddle Jr. was childish and _stupid._

"You said you were going to make up for the silence?" she prompted, her voice sounding surprisingly haughty. Tom did not grin or laugh.

"Hold out your hand," he said plainly. Tentatively, Hermione raised her left hand to him, and Tom took her hand in his cool fingers. With his other hand, he slid up the edge of her sleeve. Goosebumps prickled along her skin as she let out an involuntary shudder. He paused before grasping a bit of the english ivy trailing the wall beside them and wrapping it around her wrist. He drew the yew wand from his pocket and murmured something nearly inaudible: the vine shrank and hardened, until it was the most delicate, tiny silver bracelet of ivy leaves. There was no clasp—she knew it would never come off.

"You know jewelry doesn't fix everything," she teased when she found her voice again. Tom raised his eyes to hers.

"No? Then what is it you truly want from me?" his voice melted into the wind. Her hand still rested in his. Abruptly she snatched it away; her eyes burned.

"I'm not sure," she confessed, turning away. She began to turn to the door before looking over her shoulder at him. "It's lovely. Thank you."

And before he could speak another word, she had fled back to the party, the ivy bracelet cold on her warm skin.


	53. 53: Dear Enemy

Bad Romance

Author's Note: The censored portion of this chapter can be found, as always, on my livejournal. Link is on my profile. And remember—no ickle firsties allowed!

Thanks for all of your reviews!

Disclaimer: The HP universe does not belong to me; I am just borrowing.

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><p><strong>Chapter Fifty-Three: Dear Enemy<strong>

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><p>When Hermione reentered the party, more and more people were congratulating her. It seemed that it took more than a few glasses of wine before Purebloods let loose. What had begun as a stiff and uncomfortable party was now a raucous affair, and it took Hermione a full fifteen minutes just to cross the room and make it to her future husband. Alphard was the center of attention; people she recognized from Hogwarts were surrounding him as he waved his wand, charming a candelabra to walk across the mantle.<p>

Hermione watched him for a moment as pure understanding of Alphard dawned on her. With his cheeks flushed, his eyes twinkling mischievously, girls clamoring for his attention and boys gazing upon him with admiration, he was in his element. He had been _born_ to be the center of attention.

She pasted on a cheery expression and clapped along with everyone else when he charmed the candlesticks to flip and land neatly back in their holders. Alphard turned to her, grinning broadly, and grasped her hand, his fingers brushing against Tom's gift. Without warning Hermione was drawn in for a passionate kiss as the people around them cheered and wolf-whistled.

When he drew back slightly, their noses still brushing, she realized he had been at least partially acting; his eyes were sharp and clear. He was not as drunk as he made it seem.

"What happened?" he murmured against her lips. To the rest of the world, it looked like he was simply flirting with his fiancee. Hermione was impressed by his acting abilities.

"I'll tell you later," she replied, and to keep up appearances, kissed Alphard back playfully.

When she turned away, Tom was standing there, looking amused, surrounded by his cronies. Alphard seemed hardly surprised.

"Time to chat," Lestrange said with a leer.

"In the parlor, then. Be right back, love," he said, making a show of brushing his hand against the small of her back and pecking her on the cheek before leading the other boys to an elegant door in the corner of the room. No one seemed to notice their absence. Hermione grinned—they had been prepared for this, of course.

She slipped out, excusing herself and muttering something about finding the loo, before she crept out of the kitchen door; it was the very same one that Tom had led her through moments ago.

It was a bit difficult to jump the high vine-covered stone wall in her constricting robes, but eventually Hermione tumbled over the wall, landing in a clumsy heap on the other side. She recovered quickly, ignoring a throbbing in her ankle as she sprinted round the perimeter of the house. It was dark now, but she still drew the Invisibility Cloak from its hiding spot in a topiary tree just in case. She did not want to risk being seen.

Dim light glowed from the windows of the parlor. Holding her breath, Hermione moved like a breeze through the grass in the night to her station beneath one of the low windows. She and Alphard had set up one of her remaining Extendable Ears along the pane of this window, and crouching just beneath the sill, she pressed the Extendable Ear to her own ear.

"...We can overlook the fact that your little wifey is a Mudblood," Avery was sneering. Hermione blanched—had Tom told them of her bloodstatus, or had they found out another way? Perspiration was beginning to slide down her neck and temples.

"Now, Avery...that is only if we are to believe Cygnus' word," said Malfoy. It was surprising to hear him talk, until Hermione recalled that Alphard had observed that ever since Malfoy had received his inheritance, he had been a much more confident man. He was resembling the two Malfoy men that she had known much more now.

"It wouldn't be the first time he was a little lying cheat," Alphard replied with a callous laugh. The contrast between this facet of Alphard and the facet that had been exposed in the living room was startling. Even though she knew that in both instances, he had been pretending, it still chilled her slightly. "Accuse me of marrying a Mudblood again and I'll Hex you so bad you'll be wishing for the Cruciatus curse, Avery," he added nastily.

There were the sounds of scuffling; apparently Avery was shuffling backwards.

"Boys, boys. No need to get riled up over a little boy's silly lies," Tom said silkily. Everyone stopped moving. "We need to begin our work."

Hermione heard the clicking of shoes against the polished hardwood floor; by the languorous steps, it was probably Tom. She could picture him pacing about the room, his followers standing stock-still in fear like stupid cattle.

"Have you secured the position at Hogwarts?" Alphard spoke up.

"No. Dippet's retiring, and that crackpot Dumbledore is taking over the position. And you all know how great Dumbledore's dislike for me is." Tom's voice was flat and cold. "I've applied, of course, but Dippet said he thought I was too young and that it was Dumbledore's choice, at any rate."

"No matter. He won't be able to turn you away for too long—the old fool has no grounds on which to reject you," Alphard reasoned darkly, earning approval from Tom.

For a long time, the meeting continued. It was a basic strategy meeting: for now, Voldemort's followers were instructed to go about setting up their positions in society. Alphard was told to build up his reputation at the Ministry for future infiltration, and the others were given similar objectives.

Finally, it seemed that they were finished. Hermione waited, wishing they would hurry up—her legs were beginning to cramp up from crouching in the same position for so long. She didn't want to risk getting grass or mud stains on her robes. With cloth as fine as this, simple Cleansing charms didn't always do the trick.

The footsteps cleared away and the parlor fell silent. Breathing a sigh of relief, Hermione stuffed the Extendable Ear back against the windowpane and stashed the Cloak behind another topiary bush. She was rising to run back to the kitchen garden when the window opened, clocking her in the head. Hermione let out a cry of pain, stars winking before her eyes as she clutched her head.

Tom had opened the window and was looking at her with significant amusement.

"Enjoyed the show, did you?" he greeted. Hermione flushed. _How the hell did he know?_

"Not really. It was a bit boring, really," she snapped, massaging what would definitely be a bruise later.

"You ought to come inside. The party will be missing their guest of honor," he coaxed, reaching out and grasping her hand.

And then suddenly it clicked: how he had known where she was.

_Bloody hell. Maybe if I hadn't been so busy being such a prat about him I would've put it together. _Hermione decided against giving away that she had realized how he had discovered her presence and simply regarded Tom with an innocent expression.

"You're right. I ought to go around though; it will be odd if I come in through the parlor," she said, turning to go. She was surprised when Tom followed her outside.

"You're losing your touch, _darling_," he said in a low hiss behind her, shutting the window again after they were both standing in the grass outside. "I would have thought you might have figured it out much sooner than that."

"Silly me for thinking it was a genuine gift," she said snidely, turning around to face him again. In his dark suit, the moonlight highlighting his features, his appearance dazed her. Anger welled up within her. She had been such a fool, really. "Here I was, thinking you were simply upset to see me get swept away by another man...and one of your best friends, no less."

Tom's lips twitched.

"Perhaps you were simply hoping I was upset," he countered, arching his brows at her. Hermione scoffed.

"Yes, perhaps I was," she agreed. "But then that would imply you have the normal capacity to love and show emotion, and really, assuming that was just stupid of me."

She could see she was beginning to annoy him, and his anger was gratifying. It meant she affected him, and while it was perverse, she desperately wanted to know that he was not invincible, that he could be harmed with her acid words. She wanted to sting, to cut, to lacerate. _He's just letting me go._ It was so foolish to be thinking a thing like that, and yet, wasn't it the very thing that had been on her mind since their engagement had been announced?

"What will happen to your childish plan when everyone finds out you're just a pathetic little Mudblood?" Tom hissed, his lips curling in a sneer. Panic shot through her. _He knows the truth about the marriage._ Of course he knew. How could he possibly not know of the plan? She had to act, and she had to do it quickly. Her next move was a move worthy of Harry himself, because it was purely nerve and had nothing to do with her usual careful, calculated logic and planning.

"What will happen when you find out that Alphard's been having me for months and all I can think is how much better he is than you? Maybe there isn't a plan, Tom. Maybe Alphard and I are _in love.__" _

It happened in a flash: her back was against the stone wall. She could hear the fabric tearing against the rough stone. Tom's grip on her arms was bruising but she did not dare cry out.

"Don't be so obtuse, Hermione. You and I both know that you can never hide a thing from me. You feel nothing for Black and everything for me," he hissed furiously. Their noses were nearly touching; the wall was digging into her skin painfully. His scent was one she had been dreaming of for months and she could not resist inhaling deeply.

"Au contraire. I feel everything for Alphard. And you're right—Slytherins are better in bed after all." It was a bald lie and she could only pray that Tom would buy it. To her shock, he began to laugh a high, cold laugh.

"You never forget your first, however. Do you compare us every time he fucks you?" his voice was low, frantic, triumphant, his dark eyes flashing with what he thought was a victory.

"Yes and you don't hold up well, I must say," Hermione shot back before crying out as his fingers dug painfully into her arm. Without warning, he turned her roughly, her cheek and shoulder scraping painfully against the stone as she was forced to face it.

"Don't lie, silly little girl," he growled against her neck. Despite her pain, she was filled with the exhilaration of knowing she had gotten to him and the burning heat of her desire for him. She merely smirked, tilting her head so her cheek was pressed against the cold stone and she could look back into his furious dark eyes. Adrenaline was thrumming in her veins.

"Don't tell me you truly believe I was pining after you this whole time," she said viciously. She was beginning to understand how Harry had found the nerve to taunt Voldemort all of those times. She felt like a live wire, energy coiling within her. Tom's magic was heavy in the air; she should have been afraid but she was only euphoric. It was potently addicting to taunt the young Dark Lord.

"How many times must I tell you," he whispered in a dangerously silky, sibilant tone, "who you really belong to?"

His lips captured hers in a searing kiss, and all false pretenses fell away at that moment. Neither could hold up their front any longer, and Hermione surrendered to the kiss, his fingers scorching her skin as his tongue moved against hers. It was as though he had been starving for her, and she for him.

Her defenses melted before her eyes as Tom possessed her for what she swore would be the last time.


	54. 54: Right in Two

Bad Romance

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay. I had most of this chapter written but just wasn't feeling it. So I redid it and feel marginally better about it. Also, I was looking through old chapters for plot related stuff and was horrified by the abysmal quality of some of the earlier chapters. I'm sure wingedmercury (who is amazing and beta's for my non-HP stories) was probably cringing in horror at some of the glaring errors, rofl.

Anyway, water under the bridge. Hope you guys enjoy this one. I'm trying to make slightly longer chapters, but we'll see how that goes.

Disclaimer: the HP universe does not belong to me; I am just borrowing.

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><p><strong>Chapter Fifty-Four: Right in Two<strong>

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><p>With a swish of his wand, Tom performed the Disillusionment charm before Disapparating from his new flat in Diagon Alley, reappearing with a <em>crack<em> at the outskirts of Black Manor. He had yet to master silent Apparition but was certain it wasn't long before that was yet another skill he possessed. Still, it mattered not at the moment—no one was around to hear him appear at Alphard and Hermione's new home.

What were they planning? He had initially intended to simply perform Legilimency on Alphard, but the ex-Seeker was proving to be more adept at closing his mind than Tom had expected. Was Hermione—_no, the **Mudblood**_, he reminded himself—teaching him Occlumency? She must have, as Tom was nearly positive the engagement was nothing more than a sham. He had proven months ago that the Mudblood felt nothing for Black, and though Tom was not acquainted with the foul concept of love, he was fairly certain it was not something that could be so simply accrued from months spent in one's presence. No, he had studied the concept briefly, and he knew that the Mudblood felt no romantic love for Alphard Black.

_But perhaps_, he thought with a smirk as he approached the sprawling manor on swift silent feet,_ Alphard's intentions do not mirror the Mudblood's_. He knew Alphard well—the boy was charming and cunning and knew how to get what he wanted. Alphard was not evil but he had been placed quite correctly in Slytherin—it was not just for his notably pure blood. Could he have lured the Mudblood into a marriage under the false pretense of 'teaming up' or something similarly absurd?

If he had, Tom was a little disappointed that the Mudblood, with all of her own cunning and intelligence, had not seen through it immediately. _So perhaps he doesn't have an ulterior motive,_ mused the young Dark Lord as he approached one of the windows, _because if he did, there is every likelihood she'd spot it immediately_. He knew Alphard had taken the day off from his job at the ministry, so he was likely to be here as was the Mudblood. Tom peered in through the windows, moving from glass to glass, searching for some sign of the engaged couple.

Heavy drapes blocked his view into what he assumed must have been the library, as he knew one existed but had yet to find it in his travels. Murmuring a spell—no need to be nonverbal, naturally, as no one was around—he attempted to slide the heavy drapes aside, but they would not budge. _Damn_. So the Mudblood must have cast wards on the place—which meant this was the right window.

_Not that I need to sneak about to gain entrance to their home,_ he thought smugly. Perhaps another time then—at the moment he was running rather late for quite an important date...specifically one with a certain tree in Albania. He glanced at his watch, knowing he was expected back at Borgin and Burkes at half-past one. With another _crack_ Tom Disapparated.

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><p>"If my memory is correct, he's going to try and get the cup from Hepzibah in the next few months," Hermione thought aloud as she paced round the enormous mahogany table, staring down at the whorls in the wood. Alphard was seated lazily in a plush emerald velvet armchair cross the room, and while his posture that he maintained was one of utter relaxation, Hermione knew he was just as focused and alert as she.<p>

"You've got to tail him. I can't get any good chances to read his mind during our meetings," Alphard said, shaking his head and propping one leg over one of the arms of the chair so that he was sprawled across it. Hermione wrinkled her nose at both his posture and his suggestion.

"You know he's going to figure out right away that he's being tailed. He didn't rise to power through being an oblivious idiot—"

"Right, well, when you've got any better ideas, let me know," interrupted Alphard loftily as he stretched languidly, reminding her of a cat sunning itself on a wall. She glowered at him. "What? It'll be a perfect chance for you to practice not shagging him!" he teased, earning a well-aimed and relatively harmless Hex from Hermione that he could not quite block in time.

"I want to owl Geoffrey," she said softly, staring out the windows. Since her engagement party, she and Geoffrey had met several times for lunch. He was in training at the Auror headquarters and didn't have much time, but Hermione had been helping him out by practicing dueling with him in their free time.

She had never been much of a dueler compared to Harry, but she had learned a few tricks in her time, and Geoffrey had not forgotten how she had held her own against Tom Riddle during their Defense Against the Dark Arts courses. Their practice sessions were not just helpful for keeping the both of them sharp and ready for action, but also fun. Hermione enjoyed the chance to socialize with Geoffrey, and she also enjoyed the fact that their friendship was strengthening.

"You think it's a good idea to involve him in this?" Alphard was being serious now. He sat up slightly, frowning at her. Hermione sighed.

"Not necessarily. I just want to ask him about his methods for Disillusionment that he's learned," she explained.

"Right, but even I know Potter's no fool. He's going to wonder why you—as a bloody housewife, no less—are interested in something like that."

Hermione flinched at the term 'housewife.' It wasn't exactly the sort of moniker she had ever thought she would sport, and besides that, what with all of their servants, she rarely did any housework at all aside from making her own bed. These days, she and Alphard were completely immersed in their plotting against Voldemort.

Voldemort and his followers met often, and Hermione encouraged Alphard to make the best of these instances. After Tom got hold of Hufflepuff's cup, she knew he would disappear for at least ten years before resurfacing to ask Dumbledore for a job at Hogwarts. They had to make their mark now, before Tom decided to run off the map.

And it was working fairly well. Alphard was easily Tom's favorite again. Their strategy for now was for Alphard to drop hints that Hermione would be a suitable Death Eater as well, owing to her extraordinary magical capabilities as well as her practical, logical nature. Hermione had pointed out that if he told this straight to Tom, it'd be too obvious. Instead, he was working his way up—by convincing the other Death Eaters of Hermione's worth as one of them.

Soon she had a feeling she would be bearing a Dark Mark on her arm, and she didn't know how she felt about that. Would it go over her scar from Bellatrix? Tom already knew about that scar. Sometimes she wished she could just use the Time Turner again and fix the enormous mess she had created for herself. But she was set on this path, and she wasn't sure she could find it in herself to lose the other friends she had found.

"And we still haven't decided on how I'm going to deal with Tom recognizing me in the future," she said, turning back to Alphard, whose expression became grim at her words. He held up his hands.

"That's for you to solve. Hopefully I won't be around by that point—though it sounds like I wasn't, if you never met me."

"Well, I assume Sirius would've been staying with you," Hermione said with a shrug. "So either you were in hiding or — or dead."

It was strange to talk so candidly of a future he would not be alive for. Hermione admired how easily Alphard seemed to talk of his own impending death.

"Hope I go out in a manly way," he said with a very Sirius-like grin. "You know, dueling Voldemort or something of that ilk. But I get the feeling I probably just die of old age."

"Which is a perfectly fine way to go," Hermione said condescendingly, rolling her eyes at his glibness. "Now, should I contact Geoffrey or not?"

Alphard waved his hand in a blase manner as he rose from his chair.

"Invite him over for dinner for all I care. But I personally am going to be challenging the others to a pick-up game of Quidditch. I'll be back later tonight."

"Give the Legilimency another go tonight," Hermione called after him as Alphard left the library at their manor. The door shut behind him. Hermione stared at the closed door for a moment before she shook herself from her thoughts and went about owling Geoffrey.

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><p>Alphard and the rest of the original Death Eaters had taken to enjoying the fading summer warmth most evenings by meeting up for games of Quidditch. Sometimes Riddle joined them, though that was a rare occasion. Since graduation, Riddle had changed. Had Alphard not known any better, he might've assumed that Tom was simply becoming more and more involved in work. But thanks to Hermione, he could recognize that his former best friend (however one-sided that friendship may have been) was sinking further and further into his own darkness.<p>

Tonight when he met his friends at Malfoy Manor, Tom Riddle was late. He was wearing a black suit that seemed to heighten the ever-growing shadows on his angular face, and there was something darker lingering about his eyes. To look at him and know his current experiments gave Alphard chills. Combined with the thinly-veiled look of smugness that Tom sent his way, Alphard was desperate to find any leg-up on the young Dark Lord that he possibly could. Was it because he had so recently fucked his own fiancee against the wall of his childhood home, or was there something else at play? Had he advanced his Horcrux quest?

"Alright, who's on which teams this time?" Avery said, tossing one of the Bludgers from one hand to the other a bit menacingly as the young men all gathered in a circle, the sun setting beyond a whispery summer treelit horizon. Alphard was beginning to perspire with sudden anxiety. What if the timeline had been altered from Hermione's time? What if he had seen inside Hermione's mind long enough to glimpse his own possible downfall?

"I call Black," began Tom, smirking. His voice was jarring and startled Alphard slightly, though luckily he recovered quickly. As Alphard and Tom were by far the superior Quidditch players, it annoyed the others to no end that the two men were always on the same team together. Of course, they could never voice such an opinion.

At that moment, Cygnus foolishly stepped forward, assuming Tom was referring to him. Protectiveness, and perhaps a bit of the old competitiveness he had once had with his brother for Tom's attention, propelled him to loudly point out that Tom had meant him and not Cygnus.

He cringed at the hurt in his younger brother's eyes before rejection, jealousy, and hatred took over in their brown depths so like his own. Alphard turned away.

Soon the teams were sorted out. Alphard sauntered over to Tom as they shared a private smirk at the others' expense. They both knew they would win as they always did, for they were the best of them. And for a moment, it felt like old times...

...before she had come along and changed everything.

Before the resentment could build up, he reminded himself that nothing had changed besides his own awareness of the reality of Tom's character. And then he remembered seeing Tom Riddle torture his brother to the brink of death with nary a second thought, not so much as a twinge of remorse. And he remembered the number of times, even in the very beginning, that Tom had so effortlessly stolen away Hermione's attention. He remembered how it had felt, just a few weeks ago, to know that Tom was fucking Hermione up against the side of his home during his and Hermione's engagement party. Alphard's feelings for Hermione had abated, but no man appreciated having something of his stolen from under his own nose.

Alphard mounted his broom with his pure hatred for Tom boiling in his stomach. He had to clench the handle tightly to hide how his hands shook in anger and resentment. _You've already ruined my life_, he thought as he watched Tom soar across the field to where Abraxas was releasing the balls. _I'll never have a normal life because of you, Lord Voldemort._

_But Hermione wanted me to give the Legilimency another shot,_ he reminded himself. Tom laughed at something Abraxas had done, throwing back his head and laughing his heart out, the other boys hungrily watching him, wanting so desperately to know—what was his secret? How did he have all of the popularity, all of the athleticism, all of the charm, all of the wit, all of the looks? How did he manage to garner such loyal friends when he himself could turn around and unleash pain and suffering on any of them at any moment? What was it about him that drew people to him so magnetically?

Tom tilted his head to look back at Alphard for one moment—perhaps to confirm that Alphard found whatever it was funny as well—and Alphard seized his split second window of opportunity.

He cast Legilimency, peering into his mind for the briefest of moments. He had expected to find thoughts of Horcruxes, or thoughts of his work at Borgin and Burkes. But for that fleeing instant, all he found was Hermione.

Alphard swallowed over a lump in his throat and abruptly ended the spell before Tom could even process what he had done.

"Alright there, Black?" teased Avery from across the field.

"He's just depressed 'cause he's getting shacked up so soon," called Lestrange, earning laughs from the others. Alphard smirked smugly at them and before he could stop himself, he blurted out something:

"Nah, just tired because she keeps me up at night," he countered before pulling a sharp dive on his broomstick that he knew none of the others could handle. There were wolf-whistles and appreciative whoops from the others, but after he pulled up out of his impressive dive, he came face-to-face with Tom.

Tom didn't look happy. They hovered far above the others, staring at each other coldly. Inwardly, Alphard grimaced at his own inability to keep his mouth shut, but outwardly he could not bring himself to drop his defiant glower.

"Keeps you up at night, you said?" he said coolly, arching his elegant dark brows at Alphard.

"You heard me," he replied tartly, mirroring Tom's expression and raising his eyebrows. "But really, it's not polite to kiss and tell, so I ought to just clam up." He turned away from Tom, unsettled. "Let's just play, shall we?"

"...Yes, let's play," Tom conceded in an icy tone. "See if you can keep up, Black. You're probably very tired," he added scathingly, swooping down to dodge one of the released Bludgers. Their eyes met.

"Yeah, you're right. I am. Especially after making her scream my name 'til dawn yesterday," Alphard agreed before he swept upwards, dodging the Bludger as well. Before he could stop himself, he had kicked at it with all of his strength, sending it back in Tom's direction.

"What in bloody Merlin's name are you doing, you great prat?" demanded Cygnus, "he's on your team!"

"Oh. I forgot," laughed Alphard a bit vaguely. Tom was looking at him with renewed interest, as though seeing him truly for the first time. Alphard returned the stare before his eyes spotted what he had spent so many years looking for—the Golden Snitch.

_Time to end this stupid folly_, he thought with a smug smirk. Cygnus was Seeker for the other team and he knew that he could always outfly his little brother. In a manner so casual it was insulting to the others, Alphard dove and wrapped his calloused fingers round the Snitch, ensnaring it in his grasp.

"Aw, dammit, Black! We never get to actually play when you're here," groused Avery, dropping off his broom and hurling his bat at the ground broodingly. "Besides, can't you ever let your little brother win?"

"I don't want him to _let_ me," argued Cygnus in quite a bratty voice. Alphard rolled his eyes.

"When you gits are done bitching, let me know and we'll get back to business," he sighed, meeting Tom's eyes again. There it was again—that flashing smugness. "Besides, I want to hear why you're in such a good mood, my lord."

"In good time, Black," said Tom softly, as they watched the other boys struggle to wrestle the balls into the crate again. Alphard's jaw tightened as he prepared himself for an evening of listening for the slightest hint from Tom of his activities. _Time to end this stupid folly as well_, he thought darkly. He watched the summer breeze toy with Tom's dark locks. Tom was smirking to himself, clearly thinking of something privately that pleased him. And so Alphard smirked as well.

_You fool. You don't even know how at this very moment, your precious Hermione is plotting to end you and all you stand for...once and for all._

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><p>Hermione lay awake late that night, tossing and turning, becoming quite clammy in the sheets. Alphard had not yet returned from his outing with the other Death Eaters, and she was eager to see how it had gone. It was rare for them to last so very late. She sat up and paced for a while, her nightgown fluttering about her ankles, and nearly cried with relief when she heard the familiar <em>crack<em> of Alphard Apparating back inside their home.

She was uncertain about the state she might find him in—the Death Eaters liked their Firewhiskey, and it was expected of Alphard, as the favorite of Tom, to keep up with the others. He frequently returned to Black Manor sodding pissed, and she sighed as she heard the sound even more familiar than the crack of Apparation—the _bang_ of Alphard bumping into something as he stumbled about the manor, attempting to make his way up the marble stairs.

"Have a good time?" she asked a bit cheekily as she reached the top of the enormous staircase, watching amusedly as Alphard clunked about the front hall, ramming into an umbrella stand at one point and knocking it to the ground. Alphard fell at the stairs and looked up at her. Normally he was a very cheeky, silly drunk, and he tended to get quite flushed in his cheeks. So when she saw that he was ashen-faced, it was like a slap across her face. "Oh, Alphard, are you okay?" she demanded, rushing down the stairs, her bare feet slapping against the icy marble. Alphard shakily got to his feet.

"There you are," he mumbled, falling against her and nearly knocking her down. Hermione sighed.

"Yes, here I am. Surprise, surprise," she said dryly. "What happened at the meeting?"

"He was thinking about you," slurred Alphard as he allowed Hermione to help him up to the stairs to their bedrooms. It was difficult, as Alphard, while not the tallest man in the world, still had several inches and at least fifty pounds of solid muscle on her. Hermione wanted to slap herself for leaving her wand in the bedroom, but she had the feeling it was not the best idea to abandon Alphard in favor of getting it—even if it would make this business of carrying him up the stairs loads easier.

"Y-you looked into his mind?" she asked lightly, attempting to hide her interest. Luckily it wasn't too hard to mask any tones in her voice, as she was wheezing by the time she reached the top of the stairs. For his part, Alphard was absolutely useless, and the moment she relinquished her hold around his ribcage, he toppled over and crumpled on the floor, moaning.

"Yes. And there's another one."

"Another what?"

"Horcrux."

Hermione stared down at Alphard in shock before recovering.

"He's already found the diadem, then," she reasoned aloud before stooping to help Alphard again. Shouldering his weight was even more difficult without the leverage of the stairs, but it seemed he would not be budging on his own any time soon.

"Smart girl," Alphard slurred thickly. They reached the room they had recently been sharing and Hermione let him drop onto the bed and began helping him out of his fine robes. "I love it when you undress me," he jeered, earning a heart eye-roll from Hermione.

"Has anyone ever told you you're crap at holding your liquor?" she asked in amusement, though his former words were still weighing heavily on her mind. _He was thinking about you._

It was a poor idea to contemplate those words too much; Hermione busied herself by retrieving a basin of water to help Alphard sober up. He leaned over it, splashing his face as Hermione held his dark hair back with slightly trembling hands. Did Alphard have the slightest idea of what effect his words had on her? Had he hurt her on purpose?

_You did demand to hear everything_, she reminded herself rather unsympathetically. Finally Alphard straightened, swaying notably. His bare skin was warm under her touch; her fingers instinctively traced the lines of his tattoos.

"Bet I look better stark naked than Voldemort," he said in a tone surprisingly haughty for someone so very thoroughly stinking pissed.

"Oh, stop it," snapped Hermione irritably as she led him back to the bed, which he quite clumsily fell onto before clambering fully on, dragging Hermione with him. "How did you find out about the Horcrux?" She tried to wrestle away as Alphard drew her against his chest, but he was too strong for her. "Let me go."

"He was dropping hints," Alphard said with little interest. Hermione finally managed to prise herself from his grasp and she crawled to her usual side of the bed, putting as much distance between herself and Alphard as possible. "Made a few comments about traveling today; I reckoned he was talking 'bout Albania," he added with a yawn before slumping against the pillows sleepily. While Alphard was drifting off, however, Hermione's brain was working so fast that had Harry or Ron been there, they would've commented on being able to 'hear the gears turning.'

"I'll need to start tailing him before the wedding. And I'm going to fill Geoffrey in on everything, because we dueled today and he's gotten to be really good," Hermione plotted out loud, narrowing her eyes at the velvet emerald canopy of the bed in thought. She glanced at Alphard. "And I think I'll have to make some Pepper-Up Potion tomorrow morning, given your state," she observed dryly, smirking as Alphard rolled over closer to her. "You do realize you have work tomorrow, right?"

"Work. Right," replied Alphard vaguely before burrowing his face against her hip and slinging an arm across her stomach. "'Mione, you're too serious," he grumbled, his voice muffled by his slurring and the fabric of her nightgown.

"Oh, sorry, I'll try to be more comedic about my plotting of the downfall of the Dark Lord," Hermione countered sarcastically, earning a wry chuckle from Alphard.

There was silence as Hermione debated whether to tell him to back off. Their position felt rather intimate and she found herself holding her breath slightly.

"Think we'll ever fall in love?" Alphard wondered softly, his grip on her opposite hip tightening slightly. Hermione sighed.

"I don't know, Alphard. That's not really a fair question to ask," she pointed out.

"I was just wondering," replied Alphard a bit sulkily. "We are getting married and all."

"Just a few weeks from now," she said softly, her hands moving along his thick dark hair. "You've really been fantastic about all of this...giving up everything so readily for this." She hadn't commented on the enormity of Alphard's sacrifice yet—it had always felt too large a subject to broach.

"It was never a choice. Not after he did _that_ to Cyg," Alphard replied, his breath warm through the thin cotton of her nightgown.

Intense sympathy for this troubled young man flooded Hermione, and without really contemplating her actions, she slid down and returned the loose embrace, running her fingertips in little soothing circles over his back.

"Thank you," she breathed, her eyes catching his in the darkness. Alphard offered a weary smile before finally drifting off into a deep, drunken slumber. But Hermione lay awake for hours as she contemplated everything he had said, turning over the words in her mind as the dread of the wedding grew like a sinking weight in her stomach, pulling her further and further down into a darkness she feared she might never escape.

_For Harry,_ was her last fuzzy thought before sleep finally claimed her around dawn.


	55. 55: Cloaks and Daggers

Bad Romance

Author's Note: **Thank you, everyone, for your patience.** I know it's been a while. This chapter didn't come easily because even though I already had the plot planned out for this story, I sort of just hit a block with writing it out. I really hope you guys like it! Please review!

Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter: **untiltheveryend24, Rising-From-The-Ground, Lala, SummerBreeze3, luvslinkpk88, littlecottontail94, shalay tyree, nlech16, TheFink, suzi, DreamsB223, ClydeMordia, Dramione Fanatic, Becky80, Maegan Farrow, sydddddddd, XmoonglowX, creatingmyself, Sin-and-Smokin, toujourspurdarling, sports7, Alphabetty, gleeislove, Megan, Sophie, dmw0991, marana1, NimahVicious, Connor, always reaching new heights812, Inuyasha's God sis, Tom Riddle is sexy, ma4petite, 1poisonivy, kukkukwithbadromance, Erinn Riddle, (), bubz, smos, aliceinwonderland, Shannon the Original, everlastingtrueromance, le-femme-cavalier, Shubhs, dt, lizzywithfire, KlutzyFreak, iregretit, rising of the darkness, dianne'sQuill, angelgurl079, curlyjor, isabellasvl, 1percent, IrisMusica, Shan84, SAVAGEGRACEx, Cecilia Hart, KraZieePyrozHaveMoreFun, person, BlackShirt16, MeriLynelle, ChamiliaLutienTinuviel, emily, erinelle, Lost O'Fallon Girl, abcdreamer, icecreamy, aringle42, wingedmercury, knowitall, NadiatheNinja123, ShimmeringWater, (), JadeSterling1, (), moor, DArk 16EtErnIty z8, and WrittininStone.**

Disclaimer: the HP universe does not belong to me; I am just borrowing.

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><p><strong>Chapter Fifty-Five: Cloaks and Daggers<strong>

* * *

><p>The bell jingled but Tom was so focused on a book that a customer had brought in that he didn't hear until the intruder announced themselves.<p>

"My lord."

Tom stiffened before casting a wary look about the shop. _Empty._ With a short sigh of relief, he shut the intriguing tome and turned back to the young man on the other side of the counter, who was currently crouching in a low, subservient bow that was most uncharacteristic of him.

"Alphard."

Alphard lifted his head; his once unruly black waves were now shorn and combed in a neat, gleaming style similar to his own. His robes were newly pressed and his polished shoes shown. It was clear that he was on his lunch from his job at the Ministry. "You know better than to use that term so freely in public like this."

Unfortunately, he couldn't punish Alphard for his mistake — though his fingers itched to hold his wand — as anyone could walk in at any time. No matter. He'd make up for lost time later. "You may rise."

Alphard obediently rose to his feet and shot Tom a much more familiar grin.

"Came to deliver this myself... and, of course, to ask for some advice." Now Alphard looked genuinely troubled, which set Tom on edge. Alphard was never so forthcoming with his feelings and Tom wondered if this was part of some ploy. His eyes flicked down to the piece of parchment in Alphard's outstretched hand.

"An invitation to your wedding," he confirmed flatly, though he made no move to reach out and accept the invitation. After a moment, Alphard seemed to take the hint, and stuffed the invitation inside his robes.

"It will be in September. I would like it if you would come — and if you would, perhaps, be my best man."

He had the decency to look humble, at least. Tom fought back a scoff. He assumed that this was some part of an 'elaborate' plot to get back into his good graces, and, to confirm his suspicions, Tom nonverbally cast _legilimens._ _I'll just have a look around..._

And hit the mental equivalent of a brick wall.

"Interesting," he said silkily. Alphard smirked; he obviously knew what had just occurred. This wasn't the first time that he'd blocked an attempt at Legilimency on Tom's part, though this was the first time either man was acknowledging it.

"You yourself said at the last —er, _meeting_ — that it would be most prudent for your Knights to learn to close their mind. You've got secrets that need protecting, after all." He shrugged. "I'm pleased it worked against you — that means it works against the very best."

Alphard's smile was so self-deprecating, so sweet, that it made Tom want to vomit. Instead, he simply returned a tight smile as his keen mind worked quickly on the matter at hand.

It was in his favor to be Alphard's best man — after all, the most important people of the wizarding world would attend the eldest Black's wedding. It was only one afternoon, presumably... but what _exactly _was Alphard's motivation in asking? He could order Black to open his mind to him...

"Don't block me this time; I need to know something," he ordered sharply, casting _legilimens_ again. He was met with no resistance this time. He searched and probed for ulterior motives, but all he saw was Hermione's brown eyes filled with sadness and melancholy; her silhouette on a bed, facing away; hidden behind a stack of books, ignoring Alphard...

So Alphard was not working against him in some way; he was simply still obsessing over a girl that ostensibly felt _nothing_ for him. How pathetic. "Good," he said at last pulling from Alphard's mind. Alphard looked momentarily disoriented, as one usually did after having their mind invaded, but quickly regained his bearings. "Now, what was this about advice?" he asked in a businesslike tone.

"It's Hermione, my Lord," Alphard confessed breathlessly. "You see...I feel as though I have..._forced her..._into this marriage. She won't..." he seemed not capable of continuing, until after a moment he finally seemed to gather his wits, "...she won't let me bed her," he finally finished in a low, anxious tone. "Yet she agreed to marry me. I do not understand it at all."

An unexpected satisfaction filled Tom as he regarded his most clever Knight. So the mudblood wouldn't even let Alphard fuck her, then? There was something grotesquely pleasing about that fact. "She seems so very bored with me," Alphard added haplessly. _Of course she is, _Tom thought smugly. He again turned his brown gaze on Tom. "Perhaps if she were allowed to join the Knights..."

Tom stifled a snigger. A Mudblood, one of his Knights? Hilarious.

Still, the idea of having Hermione as one of his Knights was as intoxicating as it had always been. Not for the first time, he pictured her, and how useful she could be to him. She might have her own allegiances, but hadn't he proven — multiple times — that he could seduce her any time he pleased? Seducing her mind would be hardly different, wouldn't it?

Perhaps all she needed was a taste of _real _power — and that, he could certainly give her. In spades.

"I will consider it," Tom finally said slowly. Alphard's eyes brightened. "And I will be best man."

"Thank you, my Lord. This is a great honor for me." Alphard dropped into another deep bow, his robes sweeping against the floorboards in an elegant _swish_. "I must get back soon, my Lord," he added, gesturing to one of the less macabre grandfather clocks in the shop. Tom smirked; Alphard did not see it.

"Yes, of course. You're dismissed," he said carelessly. Alphard rose again and left.

* * *

><p>Dumbledore had suggested that he ought to keep an eye on the eldest Black son, so Garret was doing just that. He had donned his most obnoxious robes for the occasion, and spritzed on his favorite French cologne, and as he swept into the atrium of the Ministry of Magic, he was pleased to note the looks of disgust from plainer men. <em>Hell with them,<em> he thought smugly. He had always taken his fashion cues from Dumbledore, further associating him with the newest Headmaster of Hogwarts.

"Identification," droned the guard by the fountain dully, his eyes on the book in front of him. Garret stifled a rakish grin.

"Garret Potter. Auror." He placed his wand before the guard to be weighed, and soon he was given back his wand.

"Business?"

"I work here," said Garret patronizingly. "Remember? I literally _just said_ I am an Auror."

The guard finally looked up and wrinkled his piggy nose in disdain at Garret's flamboyant clothing.

"Fine. Go on," he said disgustedly. Garret shot him a playful grin and sauntered over to the golden grate. Yes, he would be stopping at the Auror offices...but first he had to pay a visit to the Department of International Magical Cooperation. _Oops. Neglected to mention that to the guard_, he thought cheekily as he rode the elevator up.

The golden grates slid open to a flurry of activity. Drones hurried from one office to the next, owls swept from perch to perch, and Ministry employees in pristine dress robes occasionally poked their heads out of offices.

"Garret Potter. You're back!" called one of the employees. It was a young woman with a tall but broad figure and brown hair styled into a short bob.

"Amelia Weasley—"

"Still Bones, Potter," Amelia corrected cheerily. Garret frowned in confusion as he fell into step beside Amelia. "I love Rupert but I happen to like my last name, you know," she explained. "What are you doing back, anyway? Visiting Geoffrey?"

"Yeah, that, and some business," said Garret vaguely. "How's little Geoffy doing?"

Amelia snorted.

"Just fine, apparently. Everyone in the dining hall is terrified of him, though, because he's always sitting in the corner glaring at everyone."

They entered an office and Garret had to mask his grin as it turned out they were entering the office of Alphard Black. _That was easy._

The office was enormous, befitting a rich Pureblood who could worm his way into the Ministry on last name alone. Alphard Black was seated at a large mahogany desk, using an eagle feather quill to sign some parchment. He looked different, though. His dress robes were pressed and his hair was short and neatly combed into a fashionable style.

"Got some more documents, Black," greeted Amelia, politely leaving a stack of parchment on the edge of Alphard's desk. Alphard looked up, his brown eyes sweeping over Garret curiously. He grinned in recognition and leaned back in his chair, kicking his feet up onto the expensive desk. _Some things, however, will never change_, Garret thought wryly, observing his all too relaxed posture.

"Well, if it isn't Garret Potter. Intelligence says you ought to still be in Germany, eh?" He winked at him.

"Classified, brat," Garret said lightly, returning the wink. "Can't believe Alphard Black is in an _office_ now," he added, strolling about Alphard's office and picking up various trinkets about the room, examining them curiously, and putting them back down again.

"Yes, it's kind of funny," Amelia agreed with her usual sweet smile. "Alphard is working for the Ministry and Tom Riddle's working in Borgin and Burkes. No offense meant, Alphard, but I think everyone would've predicted it'd be the other way around."

Garret watched Alphard's face, not missing the little flinch that came when Amelia mentioned Tom Riddle. _Interesting. I wonder if I can make that happen again..._

"I remember Geoffrey mentioning Riddle," Garret interrupted, keeping his voice casual. The signs were subtle: Alphard's grip on the edge of the desk tightened, and a certain darkness passed over his face. If he hadn't been looking for it, he would have missed it. "He's working in Knockturn Alley, then? Surprising." Garret paused in front of Alphard and toyed with the sleeve of his robe, a technique that tended to set others at ease. If he wasn't looking directly at Alphard, Alphard would feel like he was under less scrutiny, and he'd likely be more open. "You still keep in touch with him?"

"Course. He's going to be best man in my wedding." Alphard's voice was light, friendly, but Garret looked up just in time to see the boy's adam's apple move up and down as he swallowed.

"And I'm Hermione's maid of honor!" Amelia squealed. "I'm so excited, Alphard. It's going to be such a beautiful wedding."

Another dark look haunted Alphard's handsome face. _Very interesting indeed._ So_ this _was what Dumbledore had been trying to show him. _Could've just told me to look into Riddle. It's not like I'm a stupid git,_ Garret mentally sulked. He recovered quickly.

"Well, congratulations, Black. I'm sure it will be lovely. I know Geoffy's looking forward to it," Garret said before pretending to just notice his timepiece. "Oh, damn. Looks like I'm running late. See you!"

He sauntered out of the office. _One more stop here...then, looks like I'm off to Knockturn Alley._

* * *

><p>"I saw Garret Potter today," Alphard said when he had appeared with a <em>crack<em> inside Black Manor. "He stopped by the Ministry."

Hermione had been in the library, researching different ways she might recreate the experience in the Chamber of Secrets for Harry and Ginny, and she started slightly with Alphard's apparition. She rose from the table, appearing out from behind a wall of books.

She still wasn't used to seeing Alphard look so businesslike. He looked like a different person, and deep down she had to admit she missed his old wild hair. It had reminded her of Sirius and had been a source of comfort. Alphard was looking upset, however, and it forced her back to the present.

"Is that a bad thing? Come on, dinner'll be ready soon."

Hermione had taken to learning to cook, because letting the servants do everything had made her feel useless and lazy. The hunt for Horcruxes had been proof that she had needed to work on that particular skill, anyway, given that there had been several incidences with near death from food poisoning, and now she was beginning to improve. Slightly, of course. She'd never be a goddess of domesticity, but achieving adequacy in cooking would be good enough for her.

The kitchen was suited for servants and did not reflect the finery of the rest of the manor. It was cramped —_ probably built for House Elves_, Hermione thought with a disgusted grimace — and paint was peeling from the walls. Alphard was sitting at a crooked little wooden table as Hermione stood at the sink, waving her wand to keep different tasks going. _Mrs. Weasley would be proud..._

"It's a very bad thing. I've heard from Cygnus that Potter likes to poke his nose in everything. And he was definitely probing me to see about any reaction to mention of Riddle."

Hermione whipped around to stare in surprise at Alphard, and in the process, one of the dishes dropped and smashed. Hermione absently repaired the dish, still staring at Alphard, shocked.

"So Dumbledore already must be trying to keep an eye on him," she confirmed.

Alphard nodded grimly.

"If the Aurors start snooping around, they're bound to find something. None of the others know Occlumency except me," he said wearily, massaging his face with his hand. "I've got to start teaching them Occlumency or everything's going to go to shit."

He sighed loudly, as Hermione magically doled out their servings of shepherd's pie onto each plate, and they ate in silence for a few moments. "And Tom said he'd be my best man. I mentioned letting you become a Knight, and he said he'd consider it."

Suddenly it clicked.

"That's my in," she exclaimed suddenly, waving her fork and accidentally sending some shepherd's pie flying. Alphard play-glared at her, wiping food off his face rather good-naturedly.

"Yes, oh brilliant one?"

"Tom knows that I know Occlumency," she explained, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice. And now he knows that you know it, right? You can tell him you learned from me and suggest I teach the others."

Alphard looked a bit dubious for a moment, regarding Hermione thoughtfully as he rubbed his chin.

"That...could work..." he began slowly, still staring at her as he mentally worked out the idea. "I could mention it at the next meeting. The others are so desperate to win his favor; they would definitely support it."

Hermione couldn't take it; she rose from her chair, dinner forgotten, and began pacing the kitchen frantically, unable to keep still.

"And it'll be an excellent chance to prod their minds for any information they might've picked up on Voldemort's activity. They wouldn't think to hide that sort of stuff. It'll be a way for me to get inside without explicitly becoming a Death Eater. That's all I need, really." She paused, frowning. "That is, of course, as long as Tom goes for it, even partially. He doesn't necessarily have to believe I have rescinded my old views...as long as I make it clear that I have some sort of motivation."

"That's easy. You can act like you're doing it just to get close to him again romantically. His ego would believe that much...especially given past experiences," Alphard added heavily. Hermione glowered at him.

"Yes, yes, can we please stop bringing that up again? Really, you're like a broken record sometimes," she snapped. "I had sex with Riddle a few times — it's not the end of the world, believe me. I'm tired of discussing it."

Alphard exhaled hotly.

"Fine," he said testily. "But remember this time you can't just spread your legs the minute he looks at you. We've got to string him along; keep tempting him with you."

"Oh, very nice way of putting it," she said nastily, retrieving her wand and pointing it at him. "I'd like to point out that you really don't want to duel me. Say something like that again and you'll be on the receiving end of one of my less friendly Hexes, I assure you." She brandished her wand, contemplating Ginny's favored Bat Bogey Hex, but Alphard raised his hands in surrender.

"I'm sorry. I just lose my temper sometimes. I'm stressed out and some wounds haven't healed yet, okay?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him.

"No kidding," she said shortly. "Hmm, should I bring up the fact that you happily shagged Parkinson the minute I looked away? Don't try to tell me that's any different, because really, it's not."

Alphard went red, and Hermione sighed. "We declared truce a long time ago, Alphard. It's time to cease fire. We both did and said things we shouldn't have, but that's in the past now."

"You're right," he said reluctantly, raking a hand through his hair and mussing it up. Hermione slumped a little and dropped back into her seat heavily. These little skirmishes were fairly common, depending on Alphard's mood. Any time he was remotely worried about anything, he could turn quite nasty. She had learned long ago that the only way to deal with him was to give back as good as she got, and it usually made him back down immediately. His bark was much worse than his bite. It occurred to her that Ginny, who had a naturally combative nature, would have likely handled him easily.

"So," she began after it seemed they had both calmed down, "I'll feign ignorance and teach the other Death Eaters Occlumency. I'll act like I've been dying to see Riddle again."

"And I... will continue to act insecure about our marriage and seek Riddle's advice. And I'll continue to be his most faithful Death Eater."

They shared a private grin and it was a soothing salve on the wounds that they had just inflicted on each other.

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><p>That night, Hermione received an owl from Geoffrey that took her by surprise.<p>

_Hermione,_

_Meet me for lunch at the Hog's Head sometime this week?_

_-G. Potter_

Geoffrey's letters always inspired a bit of pain in her, because his handwriting was, incredibly, _exactly_ like Harry's. Hermione scrawled an affirmative, wondering if Geoffrey had heard something about Garret's current point of interest. They were both Aurors now, not just brothers, so there was some chance that Geoffrey knew that Garret had been scouting out Alphard. It wasn't like Geoffrey to request to see her just for fun — he simply didn't _do_ fun.

Ever since he'd completed his Auror training, he'd become even more serious and businesslike. This was in direct counterpoint to Garret, who only seemed to get moreflirtatious every time she saw him. Hermione had speculated that perhaps Garret preferred wizards — in spite of being positive that Garret was Harry's grandfather — but Geoffrey assured her that Garret expressed stress via his fashion statements.

And currently, it seemed, Garret's girlfriend was pestering him about marriage. Hermione had a chuckle over that, picturing Garret dodging his girlfriend, who was also an Auror.

She suspected he was getting inside information from Dumbledore. Perhaps he worked for Dumbledore on the side? She couldn't be certain.

A few days later, she Apparated to the Hog's Head, filled with curiosity but also pleased at the chance to get out. For most of the summer she had been researching, and it had been a while since she had gotten to go out and have a bit of fun.

As it was noon, the Hog's Head was mostly empty, as its usual patrons were probably still passed out from the previous night's festivities. Geoffrey was waiting at a booth in the back, looking thoroughly disgusted at his surroundings.

"You're late," Geoffrey greeted crabbily, thought nevertheless he allowed Hermione to draw him in for one of her infamously tight hugs.

"I missed you," Hermione confessed, still holding him tightly.

"Can't. Breathe," he choked, and Hermione laughed as she released him. She joined him at his little booth, smirking at how gingerly he sat down, attempting not to touch anything. He was garbed in official-looking dark blue robes; they were probably his Auror uniform, and as soon as he sat he frantically brushed off the robes.

"Well? I imagine you had some reason for inviting me to lunch."

Aberforth came by and took their order for lunch; Geoffrey rather rudely asked for "whatever was fresh and not filthy" (earning a snarky retort from Aberforth, naturally) and Hermione simply ordered toast. After Aberforth was gone, Geoffrey shot Hermione a significant look.

"What are you talking about? I just wanted to see my old friend," he deadpanned. Hermione sniggered. "My brother ran into your fiancee the other day," he added, arching his brows slightly. Hermione masked her smirk in her butterbeer. "Surprised to hear he and Tom Riddle are still best friends. Do you see Riddle a lot?"

"Haven't seen him in months. I rarely leave the manor," Hermione replied. It didn't seem like their conversation could be seen for its significance by a listener, thus far, which was good. Geoffrey was wise to go about gathering information this way. _He's a good Auror,_ she thought with quite a bit of pride.

"But Riddle and Black get together a lot then? Shame, you get left at home."

Their food arrived; Geoffrey did not hide his pure distaste at the soggy looking ham sandwich he had gotten, and acted like it caused him real grief to even take a bite of it. "What's Riddle up to these days, anyway? Do all those Slytherins still see each other? I mean, I almost never see you or Rupert anymore, so I'm curious about the other Hogwarts graduates," he continued casually before pulling a face and dropping his sandwich back onto the grimy plate, where it landed with a grotesquely soggy _plop_.

_Garret's definitely told him enough to cause him suspicion._

"Yes, I think they all still get together. I know they play Quidditch together sometimes," she replied lightly.

Geoffrey dropped the subject after that, though he continued to subtly probe for more surrounding information. Hermione was impressed by his skill — she would have never pegged Geoffrey for a master of subtlety, but it turned out he was more than capable.

Geoffrey's lunch break was coming to a close soon, so they paid and left the Hog's Head. Out in the bright sun of Hogsmeade's High Street, Geoffrey turned to her.

"You seem a lot better," he said bluntly. Hermione grinned. It was true; all of the work she had been putting towards ending Voldemort combined with how little she'd seen of him in the past few months had caused her depression to begin to lift. It seemed she was almost done grieving everything that had happened, and beginning to look towards the future with optimism.

"I am, thanks," she said honestly. Out of nowhere, Geoffrey hugged her tightly, and Hermione was shocked at the show of affection until he whispered in her ear.

"We'll keep each other informed," he confirmed in a low voice before drawing away. "Good seeing you."

"You too. Good luck with the Auror work. I'm proud of you." In a murmur, she added, "Owl me if anything new comes up. I'll do the same."

"Deal. See you, then."

With a sharp crack, Geoffrey Apparated.

Unfortunately, their rendezvous had added so many questions that were now buzzing in her head. How much did the Aurors know about Tom's activity? They would never suspect _all_ that he was capable of. Perhaps it was only the two Potters acting on Dumbledore's orders?

It seemed like Hermione would be doing some scouting of her own soon to find out.

* * *

><p>Tom Apparated to Malfoy Manor; unsurprisingly, Abraxas was waiting outside anxiously. Like Alphard, he had also obtained a fine position at the Ministry, and as such was also wearing crisp dress robes. His hair was slicked back from his pointed face. Ever since Abraxas had inherited his fortune, he had gained a confidence that was unexpected. He carried himself with presence, and it made him far more useful. He'd never be as clever as Black (the older one, naturally) or as brutal as Avery, but he was more impressive to look at than most of the other Knights.<p>

"My Lord," he said reverently, dropping into a bow that was more respectful than groveling.

"Malfoy. I have a special task for you, and only you can do it."

Malfoy rose to his feet. His face was impassive but there was an unmistakable gleam in his eyes — he was obviously pleased that he was the only man for this task.

"Anything, my Lord."

Tom smirked but began pacing around Malfoy, pretending to be lost in thought.

"A certain Potter has been lurking around Borgin and Burkes lately. It is almost as though he is following me..."

"Dispose of him, my Lord?"

"No — quite unnecessary, for now...Just see what he is up to." Tom paused, looking straight into Malfoy's pale grey eyes. "And then dispose of him."


	56. 56: Shame

Bad Romance

Author's Note: Thank you, guys, for your patience. Thanks to the following for reviewing last time: **WrittinInStone, wingedmercury, Cecilia Hart, BlackShirt16, Ayshea, GoldenPhoenix13, luvslinkpk88, DArk 16EtErnItyz8, Alassea Riddle, RorshachBrain74, small. island , Que9, Relent1ess, everlastingtrueromance, Remmy94, moor, trestreschic, SummerBreeze3, NadiatheNinja123, shannon the original, karma eater, le-femme-cavalier, miss. jenny. g-baby, izzy, ShimmeringWater, erinelle, G. E. Mills , 1percent, Sin-and-Smokin, MeriLynelle, Guest, Smithback, Aristocratic Assassin, dmw0991, Lovelyou, Shalay Tyree, barfday, sammy-mackie, bubz, lala, me, Shubhs, wizkid08, sea, Divvie, SamarKanda, Doctor It, Missy'Cinnamon, Helynn90, Shan84, TwilightGirl100195, Guest, Redshadow43, tookkia, mecom, fatcat, LordTom, mumz3l-Neskouiik-Bura, Gabby0515, Nerys, TheFink, Nonymousse, Zelma Kallas, MissChrisSweet, Jen103, xCrysi, CameForthSweetness, CaBuckeye, MidnightErised, XDkrissymissyXD, ComfySocks101, Lala, Iggy Valentine, Guest, doododoodoo, PlumperAnon, Eusebius, Draco3454, Elena Laydon, blink73, lizzywithfire, ArainaR, DawnMay, gleeislove, Yo It's Connor, Lissa, Xx-emberhaze-xX, greenholstein, Mar Needs Sleep, Guest, mh21, tomlover5986, lol4234, emily02, Iris Musica, Hugo the Diabolical Penguin, YellowBird366, Guest, Meisa-tan, Guest, Sara, AngryShoes, Makelovenothorcruxes123, helloimnikki, DocteurCrane, nolngerbeating88, evermore.x3, SuperB44, Sportypoodle, Guest, Potternerd, Serpent in Red, thestagandoe, TomFangirl1, and Sara.**

Some notes:

I realize that my story ignores facts from Pottermore and from the Pureblood family trees, as well as other minor details such as the occurrence of the Yule Ball. While I do certainly appreciate that some are willing to take the time and correct me, please do realize that I have written an entire (very, very long) story around these occurrences and therefore I will not be changing the facts.

Secondly, there are a number of you who have been reviewing every chapter since the very start, but your accounts are anonymous so I can't reply to your reviews. You know who you are, and please accept my endless gratitude. There is nothing more flattering than to see that interest maintained in a story.

Disclaimer: The HP universe does not belong to me.

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><p><strong>Chapter Fifty Six: Shame<strong>

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><p>That night after they finished cleaning up their dinner, Hermione retreated to her room. Surprisingly, Alphard did not make any motion to join her. After so much attention and clinginess from Alphard, his sudden coolness towards her was upsetting. Still, once she got into her bedroom and changed into her nightgown and dressing gown, she looked upon her blessedly empty bed with relief. Sometimes, maintaining her friendship — or rather, peace treaty — with Alphard was exhausting. She needed a break from him, and all of his intensity.<p>

She climbed into bed, her worries of the future overtaking any worries about Alphard rather quickly as she slid under the covers. For a while, she tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep. The time she'd spent in this era was unlike the life to which she had become accustomed; she had never allowed herself to be so generally unprepared in her own time. As her grief had abated over the past year, however, she was becoming more herself...and therefore, she was beginning to panic. For all of her work, she had accomplished so little. She'd only destroyed one Horcrux, and yet, what had she changed — for the better, or for the worse? ...Had she even changed a thing at all?

She closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep, but, as so often, all she saw were images of the last day of the war — the day she had used the Timeturner to get herself into this mess. She saw Harry's emerald eyes: wide open, blank, and unseeing in death, over and over. _How did this happen?_ Logically, she knew how it had come to this. They had failed.

She fell back against the pillows, at a loss, as she reflected. ..._Why_ had they failed? Where had they gone wrong? Had there been some other Horcrux they hadn't known about? Had Dumbledore's research all been false? It seemed so unlikely, and yet, all facts pointed to some sort of error...

A tap at her window jolted her from her musings, and Hermione spotted a snowy owl, reminiscent of Hedwig, flapping by her window and carrying an impossibly thick bundle. Hastily she scrambled to open the window, letting the owl tumble in. But before she could examine it, it had shaken its leg free of its package and had swept out the window, leaving her alone with this strange parcel.

Warily, she untied the twine holding it shut, and the items burst free. Scrolls of parchment, newspaper clippings, and photos seemed to explode forth, and with a yelp of surprise, Hermione staggered backwards.

The parchment, photos, and clippings lay across the desk and floor in a complete mess. Hermione knelt down to gather them, and quite suddenly, the ink seemed to leak from each piece of paper and each photo, until all of the scraps were left blank. The ink rose up in the air, nebulous and liquid. In midair, the ink united and turned to red, slowly separating again to reform letters in the air...

...Letters that were, unmistakably, in her handwriting.

_Who was your first crush? _the letters spelled out. Hermione balked. _What is going on_, she flailed mentally. Her sharp mind was already coming up with possible explanations, and so far, one prevailed. But she would have to wait and see if her suspicions were correct, impossible as they seemed.

"L-lockhart," she stammered. The red ink shifted and reformed in midair.

_Oh, and don't worry — I already set up the wards,_ the letters said. _I just had to make sure this didn't get into the wrong hands. You answered correctly, though!_

"Er...good?" she said weakly. Without preface, the ink splashed back onto the pages in a torrent of red, turning back to black and bleeding into each scrap; the pictures and words reappeared on each parchment like dark wounds. It was a bit over the top, but it was also lovely spellwork. For a moment, she admired it. With a deep breath, Hermione knelt down and picked up a photograph from the mess at random.

It was of a strikingly familiar woman, with her hair pulled back severely, and dark robes and dark eyes. She was standing arm-in-arm with Alphard, shockingly enough, who looked about fifteen years older and was sporting a beard that Hermione rather thought he might regret at some point. _Is this one of his uncles?_ Or, if her suspicions were on the mark after all, then it was Alphard himself...

However, these two figures were not the centre of the photograph; they were off to the side, in a large group of people, with an elderly couple at the centre. Though it was a magical photograph, there was not much movement. Their smiles were tight and false — in some cases non-existent — and even the youngest children looked miserable.

Nonplussed, Hermione turned the photograph over. On the back, in her own tiny, neat handwriting, was scrawled: _Black Family portrait: 1960._

She drew in a sharp breath before looking back at the photograph, to reexamine the woman with Alphard. What she had missed before was now clear as day: _the woman was her._

So she'd been right.

She must have performed Charms to make herself look as though she'd aged; she also looked so thin she was almost ill. There was a haunted quality to hers and Alphard's eyes that was like a punch to the stomach. _What is this?_

Panic began to set in anew as Hermione cast the photograph aside and began rifling through the other things. She grasped at a newspaper clipping closest to her; it was the _Daily Prophet_, from the obituary section — and it was for Garret Potter.

And the date of death was for tomorrow.

With shaking hands, Hermione set it aside and continued piecing through the contents of the strange parcel, even as her sharp mind was putting the pieces together. _These are things from the future. _The only explanation was that it was sent from her future self. The enormity of these realizations hit her just as she picked up another set of photographs. Alphard, Rosier, Avery, and the others were surrounding Tom Riddle, though she hardly recognized him at first even though, technically, he looked precisely the same.

His features were different and yet so very much the same. He looked blurred, although the others were in sharp, clear focus. They were laughing and jeering at some private joke; Tom was at the centre of it all, the eye of the storm, calm as ever and yet more frightening and terrible than ever. His eyes looked straight at the camera; they were shadowed and murky in their depth.

Tom Riddle was no longer beautiful.

It was a photograph from the Hog's Head — she recognized the décor in the background. _So this is when he went to ask for a job at Hogwarts..._ But the Death Eaters around him were triumphant; they did not look like they were trashing Dumbledore for not accepting Tom. Clearly, they were celebrating.

She turned over the photograph; on the back was written _Voldemort acquires teaching position at Hogwarts, 1955._ The handwriting was, again, precisely hers.

There were dozens more photographs like this, even ones of a young Sirius and Regulus playing with Alphard. There were hers and Alphard's wedding photographs; there were photographs of the Death Eaters... And there were so many obituaries that Hermione lost track of who had died that shouldn't have.

Finally, she came across a scroll of parchment, sealed thickly. She could not seem to open it — it would not unfurl — until she found a scrap of parchment she'd almost missed.

In her handwriting, it said:

_This is the future that you have created. This is the result of everything that happened in the first year._

_I have traced it back to Garret's death. Please, _please_, do NOT let him go to Knockturn Alley tomorrow, whatever you do. Do not let Geoffrey go either. Keep them occupied for as long as it takes. If either of them goes to Knockturn Alley, Abraxas Malfoy will kill them on orders from Voldemort, who suspects them. They will both be going there to scout out Tom, as requested by Dumbledore. Do not let them go._

_I have done more research. The scroll you could not open contains my findings. Dumbledore was wrong... well, not _wrong_ precisely, but his research was by far incomplete...I could go on for ages about it but you will see for yourself. I have finished what he never could; I now understand the key to defeating Voldemort._

_You must carry out these plans. I have written everything down. I am sure everything is quite clear by now. I have charmed the scroll so that it will open at the right time. I know, I know — but I realize now that it is necessary, and you of all people should know that I am right._

It was unsigned, but then, no signature was necessary for Hermione to understand. In shock, she dropped the note, staring with unseeing eyes at the scroll. She was too overwhelmed to begin parsing everything she had just learned, and yet, there was no _time_ in which to parse everything.

Even with all of the conflict, the pain, the confusion, the rage, and the sadness, it was as though a switch had been flicked. Hermione blinked, looking around her room. Everything was just the same as it had been moments ago, and yet, everything was so much clearer, so much starker. _I have a path. _For the first time since before she had arrived in this era, she had a plan — one that would work. If it truly was she that had conducted that research on ending Voldemort, then she knew it was solid work. She only accepted the best of herself, and she would never endorse an idea that was not true.

She was eager to get her hands on that research, but first, she had to ensure that Garret and Geoffrey did not go to Knockturn Alley. She sprang to her feet and dressed hurriedly; there was no time for sleep tonight.

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><p>It was early in the morning; the pale grey of early dawn cast Diagon Alley in a silvery pink. Autumn was approaching and so Hermione found herself drawing her cloak round her shoulders tighter to ward off the dewy chill. It had been some time since she'd been away from Black Manor for more than a few hours, and she was surprised at how enlivening it was to get away from those dreary velvet drapes and the sinister brass and wrought iron serpents that seemed to haunt every nook and cranny in the manor.<p>

After setting up a series of security measures to protect the unopened scroll, Hermione had set to work writing down as much information as she could from the photographs. She was exhilarated and yet horrified at how the future had panned out, and the more she combed through the photographs and newspaper clippings, the more she discovered about the world she had ruined.

As entrancing as the photographs were, however, they would have to be destroyed. After encoding the notes she had taken, she had burned the photographs and clippings. No evidence could remain, not even the ashes of the photographs. She was just relieved that Alphard hadn't wanted to stay in her room with her the night before, though it was likely that that version of her self had recalled being alone that night for some reason and found it safe...or, more likely, she had cast some sort of Charm to make Alphard go to his own room. Was that version of her self close by, in this timeline as well? The very thought was exhilarating as well. _This is how it should have been all along. _She'd lost so much time at Hogwarts, getting caught up in the silliness of boys and gossip and friends.

As she had burned the photographs, two images stayed with her long after the flames had curled around them: Alphard's haunted expression...and Tom's mutely triumphant one. After everything that had happened with Tom, seeing that expression on his blurred face had turned her blood to ice.

She'd ruined everything — with her weakness, her grief, her selfishness, her foolishness...with everything. It was all her fault, and the shame was almost too big to absorb. All of the romance and tension with Tom seemed, from this angle, pathetic, immature, and above all, so stupid. She could make so many excuses for herself and for her behavior and yet none of them could ever possibly make up for what she had done. And here she was, again, having to go back in time again to fix a mistake.

She couldn't afford to get it wrong this time.

This time, she would defeat Voldemort — she would defeat Tom Riddle. For they were the same man, and she could never forget that; never again.

Still, there was no reason to dwell on her failures. She could only thank her future self for finding the key to saving her timeline. Of course, she had her suspicions about the reliability of the information, but she'd done all the tests she could find to determine if the items had been falsely manufactured. In the end, the only thing that made her positive of the parcel's credibility was the question about Lockhart. Silly as it seemed, it was not something that anyone else (aside from Harry and Ron of course) knew about. She'd have to take a leap of faith and trust that she was doing the right thing.

There was also the method for defeating Voldemort...but she could not open that one yet.

She knew she couldn't simply owl the Potter boys with some silly excuse for why they ought to visit her, or something like that to take them away from Knockturn Alley. Both Geoffrey and Garret were too involved in their job to be lured away that easily. She needed to divert them somehow.

She had disguised herself, in case she was spotted by Tom, and now she had ginger hair and a heavy unibrow. She looked ridiculous, but it was the best she could meaningfully do on such short notice. She'd also taken a plain cloak that could not be recognized as belonging to her. So Hermione put up her hood and waited in the alleyway between Diagon and Knockturn Alley, ensuring that her face was in shadow. For hours she waited, straining her ears and nose for any sign of Garret — as his heavy cologne tended to precede him.

Unsurprisingly, around ten in the morning, she spotted Abraxas Malfoy striding through Diagon Alley, with a pastry that was likely from the Leaky Cauldron in his hand, towards the entrance to Knockturn Alley. _What if, instead of diverting Garret and Geoffrey, I diverted Malfoy? ...But then, what if Tom kills them himself?_

Hermione was at a loss. She couldn't underestimate Tom — he'd have backups if Malfoy failed. Still, she could divert Malfoy for now. Then a new and far better idea occurred to her, and for a moment she had to marvel at how much she had changed back to her former self within a matter of hours. Beneath her cloak, she brandished her wand. _Imperio_.

Malfoy halted mid-stride, suddenly looking quite confused. Smirking to herself, beneath her cloak Hermione flicked her wand slightly. Malfoy turned back towards the Leaky Cauldron, looking cheerful. He was cheerful because, Hermione mused with a smirk, he had just decided to buy a pastry and some pumpkin juice to surprise his Dark Lord with at work for breakfast. Malfoy practically skipped back to the Leaky Cauldron, leaving Hermione alone again. When he showed up with the pastry for Voldemort, he'd distract him by wanting to chat about this and that over pumpkin juice and breakfast.

However, probably, Tom had other Death Eaters stationed in the area. If he was truly suspicious of Garret, he wouldn't chance anything by leaving it all up to Malfoy. She'd have to scout the area and search around a bit.

Hermione took the opportunity to hurry over to Borgin and Burkes. Sure enough, she spotted Tom's svelte silhouette through the cluttered, grimy window, and her heart clenched. _No._ She couldn't feel those things anymore — she had seen the result of her selfishness and weakness.

She had to be strong again.

She slunk around, back and forth, in search of other Death Eaters and letting her search keep her mind off of her memories of Tom. She performed a few quick nonverbal spells to identify if anyone was in disguise, but she found nothing. Hermione frowned. This was worrisome. Either Tom really had trusted Malfoy with the job — in which case, he obviously had quite a bit of learning to do before he took over Britain — or someone else was more expertly hidden... Or, of course, Tom was just planning to do the job himself. Hermione was uneasy. This did not bode well, and the sooner this day was over, the better she would feel. But even worse was that, likely, Geoffrey and Garret would try to visit Knockturn Alley tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. She couldn't indefinitely prevent them from coming here, because they were both too smart for that.

The only solution was to contact Dumbledore. Of course, it had been the first option she had considered, but in the end she had deemed it too risky. Now that she was thinking more clearly, however, she was seeing what she would have to do. She had no choice, and perhaps by not including Dumbledore more in her plans, she had made a mistake.

Hermione left Knockturn Alley and went to the Leaky Cauldron, where she took a room to ensure privary, and sent a Patronus to Dumbledore, asking him to rescind his orders that Garret and Geoffrey go to Knockturn Alley. She couldn't do more than that, for now. She didn't want to risk leaving the area, lest Geoffrey or Garret get murdered anyway. With a sigh, she left the room and went back to her post at Knockturn Alley.

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><p>Alphard awoke with a start to sunlight streaming through his window. He blearily rubbed his eyes and fell back into the pillows, sniffing the air hopefully for signs of breakfast from Hermione. Sadly, he could not pick up on the scent of kippers, eggs, or any other of his favorite breakfast foods. <em>Dammit<em>. Was she sleeping in? It seemed so unlikely, so un-Hermione. He pulled his dressing gown on over his bare chest and sleep pants and, still yawning and rubbing at his mussed hair, padded along the marble corridor to Hermione's room.

There was a note left on the door.

_Good morning! I went to Diagon Alley today for a spot of shopping — will be back in time for dinner. _

_Love, _

_Hermione _

Alphard frowned. What about all of their planning last night? _Perhaps she's gone to shop for more Pureblooded clothing_? Either way, it was odd, and he was annoyed that she'd not prepared him breakfast before leaving. With a scowl he went back to his rooms to begin dressing. As he stood in front of his mirror, carefully combing his hair into its new neat style, an idea struck him, and he grinned at his reflection. _I'll surprise her in Diagon Alley, _he decided. That'd be fun. Things had been far too tense between them — well, when _hadn't_ things been too tense, really? — and what he felt they were in desperate need of was some good old-fashioned silly fun. Besides, no one cared when he showed up to work, anyway.

Alphard left the manor and strolled out into the brisk, early Autumn morning. He closed his eyes, scenting the air, and reminisced of times past — Quidditch practice, mostly. Looking around, he marveled at his life now. One year ago, he had met Hermione, and she had been just another cute bird at Hogwarts. And now...she was the driving force in his life. Of course, they had their problems, and for the most part, Alphard was feeling any romantic notions for her were slipping away from him. The girlish, childish, somewhat helpless Hermione that he had met was fading. He had had feelings for that Hermione — with that Hermione, he was always the dominant one.

It was shameful, when he thought of it that way, but it was the truth. Now their relationship was one in which Hermione was the boss. She didn't really need him anymore — now, _he_ needed _her_. She told him what to do and he was beginning to see that he had no choice but to follow her orders. She'd grown into a woman in the past few months, and the difference was startling. Now he was beginning to see that this was who Hermione truly was: a force with which to truly be reckoned. And while he liked this real Hermione more, he had lusted after the Hermione he had first met much more.

_Anyway_, he laughed inwardly, _e__nough pondering to yourself like a damned Ravenclaw. _It was better this way, really. If they had no romantic or sexual feelings for each other, then their mission was all the easier for it. This epiphany was a weight off his shoulders, and Alphard felt lighter and freer. He and Hermione were going to save the world from Tom Riddle together — how inextricably the three of them had come to be entwined! It was so strange.

Alphard walked further from the manor, towards the edge of the wards, and turned on the spot. He appeared in the Leaky Cauldron a second later, and nearly appeared on top of none other than the _illustrious_ Garret Potter. _Great_, he thought grumpily, righting his pristine robes.

"Alphard Black!" Garret boomed, brushing his glittering purple robes off. Alphard almost choked at the sight of him — or rather, he almost choked on the heavy cologne that Garret seemed to have marinated himself in.

"Potter," Alphard exclaimed with much less enthusiasm. "Long time, no see," he added, weakly allowing Garret to shake his hand. Garret was beaming.

"Are you here to visit your best man Riddle, then?" Garret was in rare form today — he was so jolly that it was revolting. Alphard smiled tightly.

"No," he said flatly. "I'm actually surprising Hermione. She's here to shop, and—"

"Hermione's _shopping_? I hope she gets more berets! She does look so very charming in them." This seemed to elate Garret. "_Ooh_, maybe you can sneak a quickie in the dressing room, eh? Eh?" Winking, he elbowed Alphard, earning another terse smile from him. Alphard was about to excuse himself when the door to the Leaky Cauldron burst open, revealing, of all people, Professor Dumbledore, who was looking unusually harried and anxious.

"Garret, there you are," he sighed with relief. Alphard arched his brows, now interested. It was rare to see Dumbledore looking anything other than serene and vaguely amused. Garret greeted Dumbledore with a tight hug as though he'd not seen the man in years.

"Dumbledore!" he nearly sang. "How are you today?" Still, there was an underlying tension to Garret's movements, and Alphard did not miss the way Garret was trying to silently communicate with Dumbledore with his eyes. "I was just on my way to Knockturn Alley to browse a bit."

His words were too significant; he was placing too much emphasis on them. Dumbledore turned to Alphard and gave him a fond smile.

"Alphard Black! It is a shame to see you off the Quidditch field. But, no matter — onto bigger, brighter, better things! And how is your job at the Ministry treating you?"

Alphard decided it was in his — and Hermione's — interest to stay and see if he could glean anything further from the interactions of these two. There was definitely something suspicious here, and he knew Dumbledore was a man to be watched. ...Garret, of course, was as well; the problem was not getting blinded by the man's horrific fashion when watching him. With a smile, he clapped Dumbledore on the back.

"Oh, it's been great, Professor — though not as good as my time at Hogwarts, I assure you." He paused, looking between the two men. "Say, why don't we all get an early lunch together here, and catch up? Hermione can wait."

"That's a fantastic idea, Alphard —"

"I've got somewhere to be in a bit, actually," Garret interrupted hastily, looking openly tense for the first time. Dumbledore's smile tightened.

"You really ought to have lunch with us, Garret."

Inwardly, Alphard laughed hysterically at his own luck. He had just thwarted Garret Potter, the infamous Auror. Outwardly, he simply nodded encouragingly. "Come, sit — I will get our drinks from Tom."

Dumbledore and Garret shared a significant look, and suddenly, Garret plopped down in one of the booths, having transformed and looking carefree and relaxed like he was on holiday in the south.

"Oi, Geoffy!" he called across the pub. Alphard glanced over to see that Geoffrey Potter was striding past them, in his Auror robes, looking crabby as always. His head jerked up when he saw Garret and Alphard, and his eyes narrowed.

"Is this the monthly club meeting of people I find irritating?" he snarked. Alphard opened his mouth to supply a retort — _more like monthly club meeting of people who find _you _irritating — _but quite suddenly, Garret jumped up and slung an arm round Geoffrey, towing him with impressive ease into the booth and boxing him in.

"Dumbledore's here too; I believe he's club president," said Garret with a smirk, ruffling Geoffrey's hair. Geoffrey turned puce with rage and withdrew his wand.

"I've got somewhere to be, prat. Out of my way —"

"And Geoffrey Potter joins us as well!" Dumbledore interrupted loudly, bearing four mugs of butterbeer. "How lucky we are today!" Geoffrey paled instantly.

"Professor Dumbledore," he said reverently with haste, "I hope you're well." Alphard had to hide his smirk behind his hand. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as he slid in next to Alphard.

"Come, have lunch with us, Geoffrey — I _insist_," he said kindly, though his tone managed to leave no room for argument. Reluctantly, Geoffrey sank back into his seat, looking like he was putting quite a lot of effort into not scowling.

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><p>Hermione had no way of being sure that Dumbledore had gotten her message, but thus far, neither Potter had shown up yet, and Abraxas Malfoy was gaily regaling Tom with stories of his childhood, with much gesturing with pastry. Hermione sniggered to herself. Tom couldn't do anything while Borgin was still minding the shop with him, so he would have to tolerate Malfoy's idiocy for a bit longer. Of course, he was obviously not above using the Imperius Curse (nor was she, evidently) but this at least bought her some time.<p>

Another hour passed, and still there was no sign of either Potter. _Where are they?_ Fear struck her. _What if he's already killed them?_ No. It wasn't possible. _Just stay calm, go to the Leaky Cauldron, and Apparate to the Ministry and check if Geoffrey's still there,_ she told herself. But then she was torn — what if they came once she'd left, and she missed them?

She stood there for another age it seemed, debating on what to do. She could set up Charms to make Geoffrey and Garret keep remembering things they had to do every time they approached the area, as the Ministry had done with the Muggle wards during the Quidditch World Cup, but there was too great a risk of the Charms being broken without her there to maintain them.

The afternoon passed. Eventually, Tom got Malfoy to leave, though she suspected that he'd only allowed him to stay because he'd not seen any sign of either Potter. As the shadows grew longer and the light grew rosier with the promise of a sunset, Hermione's attention was caught by a tall figure approaching, his robes sweeping the cobblestones.

It was Dumbledore.

Hermione balked. Had he gotten her message? Hermione hurried away from the path of Tom's vision and back to Diagon Alley, where Dumbledore was still walking.

"Professor!" she greeted, tugging her hood down. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled behind his half-moon spectacles at her disguise.

"It's good to see you..." he replied with a smile, "I did receive your message. Fortunately, it seems both of the boys were held up by none other than your fiancee."

Hermione stared stupidly at Dumbledore, who offered her his arm, beaming at her. How was it that he always saw through disguises so easily? With a sigh, she took his arm and allowed him to lead her back into Diagon Alley. In a secluded spot, she removed her disguise, scratching in relief at her forehead where the unfortunate unibrow had once been. Dumbledore was still beaming at her. "You'll want to get changed, too, I think," he remarked lightly. Hermione hastily Transfigured her robes to more closely resemble those that she had seen on Irma and Walburga, and with a few hasty spells, pulled her hair back into its severe chignon to mimic Pureblood style.

"I'm so relieved," she admitted, once they were walking again. "I was so worried that you'd not gotten my message, and I kept debating over whether to Apparate to Hogsmeade to get in touch with you, and —"

"One thing at a time, Hermione," chuckled Dumbledore. "I happen to be late for an important meeting at the Ministry, but I expect you to come to Hogwarts sometime soon...As I suspect you have a few things you'd like to tell me." His last few words weighed heavily on her, but before she could react, he was walking away. "Good to see you today, Hermione. I've seen so many of my old students today! What a treat." He waved and soon was lost round the bend, leaving Hermione standing by herself in Diagon Alley.

She felt like she could have flown — even on a broomstick. Garret and Geoffrey were still alive, and they wouldn't be going to Knockturn Alley any time soon, and it was all thanks to Alphard, really. At least, Dumbledore had made it seem that way. Right now, Hermione really thought she could have kissed Alphard on the lips, she was feeling so grateful. Resisting the urge to do a victory dance, she set her shoulders into her most dignified posture, and swept along the road towards the Leaky Cauldron. Now, she could Apparate home, and study that scroll to see if she could find a way around her own Charms —

"Well. If it isn't the soon-to-be Mrs. Black," came a soft, silky voice, just as Hermione reached the brick wall. She tensed and turned around to find Tom close on her heels, in his immaculate black suit. He had not lost his beauty yet, of course — that would not happen for another several years — and as always, he took her breath away. _There's no way he could have listened to my conversation with Dumbledore... _

"Riddle," she countered, turning to face him fully. Tom's eyes roved over her form.

"You look like such a regal Pureblood," he said, his eyes glimmering. "It suits you..."

The irony of his words was not wasted on her. Hermione regarded him for a moment, thinking of the flames curling around his blurred, terrible, hideous beauty. And she smiled at him as all of the intense emotions that had threatened to bubble over began to quiet themselves. She would not fall prey to Tom Riddle ever again. Tom looked affronted.

"Thank you," she said honestly. "You look well also. I heard you accepted Alphard's request to be his best man?"

Tom's smooth lips — the lips she had kissed so many times — curved into the smirk she had memorized.

"Does it bother you?" his eyebrows arched slightly, mimicking worry, and he placed a cool hand on her shoulder, just barely grazing her collarbone, and sending a tingle down her spine. Her smile, however, broadened.

"No, in fact — I'm honored that you will be in our wedding. You've made me so happy," she replied sweetly. Tom's lips parted nearly imperceptibly in surprise, and he withdrew his hand. "I've got to go — I still have so much preparing to do for the wedding! I can't wait to see you there," she added, and with that, turned on her heel, tapped the brick, and left Tom standing in the sunlight of Diagon Alley.


	57. 57: Schism

Bad Romance

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who reviewed last time: **Indigo Lily, Draco3454, Guest, Sara, mziggy25, cicadawing, liljennmartin, Annie27766, ShimmeringWater, le-femme-cavalier, Mishil, lozipozivanillabean, ThereAre666Ways2Love, lotua, everlastingtruer, Cecilia Hart, wingedmercury, Aftermath11, DawnMay, Origurumi, timi55, HPotterfan101, MeriLynelle, phillyrock253, gleeismylove, DocteureCrane, lunapeacock, patricia . pc , NAO-chan33, reader204, Smithback, miss . jenny .g-baby, dmw0991, tacker23, marana1, Guest, Guest, and hateme101.**

Disclaimer: the HP universe does not belong to me.

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><p><strong>Chapter Fifty-Seven: Schism<strong>

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><p>Hermione was feeling rather triumphant, though her heart was pounding like a war drum as she turned on the spot to Apparate back home to Black Manor. <em>Take<em> that,_ Voldemort_, she thought with a smug ferocity. Although her overactive imagination was thrusting memory after memory of Tom at her, she ignored them. She wasn't ever going to let him take advantage of her again, and the best way to start was to keep him out of her mind — both literally and figuratively.

Still, it was easy to do that when one hand a scroll full of likely impeccable research awaiting them. She forgot about Tom's lovely face as she reappeared outside the wards of her home, and prepared to bolt back to her room to see if it was the 'right time' yet — but was surprised to find Irma and Walburga waiting outside, underneath an enormous dark green parasol to shield themselves from the sun.

"_There _you are, darling," greeted Walburga, sweeping over to her. Hermione tried to hide how odd it was to be embraced by Walburga, and instead smiled tightly at the two women. "The wedding is approaching and you still don't have a wedding dress!"

"So you've been waiting here for me to return?" She arched her brows at them. How long had they been waiting? The day was nearly over.

"Oh, no — we were just enjoying the weather. I've taken it upon myself to order a few trunks from my favorite clothiers from Paris, so you can try some on and pick your favorites. They're waiting inside," drawled Irma, sweeping to her full height — which was not so impressive, as she was even shorter than Hermione — and preening a bit.

Hermione fought against the urge to stamp her feet and whine, but there was no way she could get out of this, and besides, Alphard would be suspicious if he found out she had pushed his mother and sister away for no good reason. Pasting on a strained smile, Hermione gestured for them to follow her inside.

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><p>After a strange lunch time, Alphard could not find Hermione anywhere in Diagon Alley. <em>Guess she's gone home,<em> he decided. Checking his watch, Alphard realized that he still could put in a few hours at his 'job' before heading home for dinner. It wasn't like Hermione would have cooked anything anyway, and he was still full from that lunch. Alphard made a dash for the Ministry but, hating to arrive anywhere looking like he had hurried there, swanned into the Ministry's main vestibule as though he were not approximately six hours late for work.

"Ah, Minerva McGonagall," he greeted cheekily as he stepped onto the lift. Minerva arched a dark brow at him.

"Black. Just getting in?"

Alphard made a show of yawning and stretching his arms over his head. Minerva had been a year above him, but he could quite easily recall that she had fancied Tom — and, even better, Potter had so clearly fancied her.

"Yes...my schedule is so stressful, let me tell you," he confided in a stage whisper. "They're working me to the bone!"

"I'm sure," said Minerva dryly, keeping her eyes focused ahead. Alphard scowled. Minerva was so difficult to tease. At least Hermione got ruffled at any little thing — teasing Minerva McGonagall was like trying to fluster stone. And yet, he had always felt the overpowering urge to do just that. Perhaps there was something to it, that she was more of a challenge. The lift pinged, and the grates slid open. "Good day, Black," Minerva said cordially before stepping off the lift. Alphard slumped back against the elevator wall, watching the grates slide shut again and eclipsing Minerva's slim form.

He was feeling strangely perturbed, and he wasn't sure why.

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><p>It seemed as though the universe was laughing hysterically at her. After losing hours to trying on hideous wedding robe after hideous wedding robe, Walburga and Irma invited themselves to stay for dinner and were horrified to learn that Hermione and Alphard didn't keep House Elves. Hermione knew it was not wise to let her true feelings on the matter show, but at the moment she felt so enraged she thought her very head might burst into flame.<p>

Matters only worsened when Alphard returned home and mentioned that he had not been able to find Hermione shopping in Diagon Alley. This led to another round of stupidity from Walburga and Irma, who insisted that from now on, she would only be shopping at their stupid precious Parisian Pureblooded clothier.

One would think that the matter would have been settled there, but even after Irma had her own House Elf (well, one of them, at least) come to cook them a 'proper' supper, Irma and Walburga insisted on inspecting Hermione's wardrobe; they assured her that they could smell Mudblood work on clothing and she would have to discard said clothing immediately.

And of course, Alphard had the cheek to look on in amusement at all of this. When Hermione shot him a scowl from across the dining room table, he merely grinned cheekily at her. _I'll Hex him later,_ she thought grumpily. She was also filled with relief that she'd taken such care to rid her room of the evidence of the parcel; Irma and Walburga swanned into her room in spite of her protests and began rifling through her wardrobe like fashion-conscious Nifflers. It wasn't until every item of Wizarding clothing she owned lay scattered across her rug that Walburga and Irma seemed satisfied.

"Well, no matter — we'll simply get your measurements and have Jacques send over a few emergency robes, until we can get you to Paris," prattled Irma, whipping out a measuring tape from Merlin knew where and immediately reaching forward to divest Hermione of her clothing. The whole experience was aggravating and humiliating, and by the time Irma and Walburga _finally_ left, she was exhausted and it was well past her bedtime.

Hermione took her moment of peace to check, but the scroll still would not open. Swearing loudly, she stashed it back in its hiding place and slunk down the marble stairs. Alphard was seated before the fire in the library, reading the _Prophet. _

"Your mother and sister are insufferable," Hermione grumbled, storming over to the plush emerald brocade armchair opposite Alphard. She threw herself dramatically into the chair and crossed her arms, pouting like a child and scowling at Alphard, who was still (rather wisely) concealed by the paper. Apparently deeming it safe, Alphard slowly lowered the paper to reveal a cheeky grin at her.

"Imagine living with them," he countered with a snigger. Hermione pretended to faint in the chair, earning another snigger from Alphard. "...Though I do think if we're really going to do this whole...thing... we ought to keep up appearances and get a few House Elves. And yes, I know you're opposed to them," he added at Hermione's expression of horror, "but if we want to fit in with the other Purebloods, that's the easiest way to do it."

Hermione slumped back against the chair, feeling Alphard's gaze on her grow weightier.

"What?" she demanded irritably, still avoiding his eyes.

"Why were you in Diagon Alley today?"

Hermione looked up, meeting Alphard's eyes. _He is my friend,_ she reminded herself. Again she saw that photograph of them: their eyes so haunted, so hunted. Whatever might happen now, they had been through something significant together, and she had, thus far, told him everything.

But that didn't mean that had to continue. If Alphard were going to be within Legilimens-level reach of Voldemort, she could not keep divulging so much. She decided she would be partially truthful.

"I got a message from my future self," she began, watching as Alphard's eyes widened. He dropped the _Prophet_ on his lap, his lips parting in shock. "And," she continued when he remained silent, "my future self traced a series of unfavorable incidents back to the death of Garret Potter, which would have happened today. He was going to go scout out Riddle, but Malfoy was apparently prepared for him. I went to ensure he did not die." She smiled now at him. "But, as it turned out, you saved the day in the end by convincing everyone to have lunch."

Alphard's lips curved into a smug grin and he propped his feet up on the ottoman, folding his arms behind his head.

"Yep, that was me," he sighed in mock-humility. He observed his nails casually before refolding his hands behind his head. "Saving the world...one lunch at a time." Suddenly, he sat forward again, becoming serious. "Why didn't you tell me though? You lied," he pointed out, "...again."

"There was no time," she said hastily, "I got the message early in the morning and I didn't want you to worry. Riddle would have suspected if you had interfered with Malfoy, and that would make our other plans more difficult."

Alphard hardly seemed satisfied with this tall tale, but he simply frowned in thought, staring contemplatively at the roaring fire.

"How could you possibly trust the message, though?"

"They — well, _I, _I suppose — sent me Garret's obituary, and there was a password on the document that...only I would possibly know." She felt her cheeks warming at the memory of the question. Oh well. It _was_ probably the only way to guarantee that it had fallen into her own hands... Of course there were all sorts of identity charms, but those could so easily be tampered with. Sometimes, the best solution was the simplest one.

"And does this future _you_ have any other helpful tidbits?" snarked Alphard. Hermione ignored him as she too stared into the fire. "Okay, I'm sorry," he amended quickly. "I just am peeved that you didn't tell me."

"And yet you saved the day in the end, so you can't be _too_ upset."

"Yes, but you try to do everything on your own and everything falls to pieces, Hermione!" said Alphard with a sigh. He was pulling at his hair now. "Whatever. The other Knights are getting together tomorrow, and I'll bring up the idea of you teaching them Occlumency there. In the meantime, we need to get you to be the Pureblood trophy wife." A smirk curved his lips again as he met Hermione's eyes. "And that means...House Elves. Lunch dates with the other Pureblood wives. Pureblood parties, dinners, events — all of it."

Hermione groaned again but did not complain — she knew Alphard was right. Well, partially — he was obviously misguided in thinking that any time she did things on her own, she failed. In fact she often felt that she particularly excelled at doing things on her own. However, that did remind her that she was still meant to owl Dumbledore.

Alphard surprised her again that night by going to his own room with nary a peep, leaving her to her own room. It was welcome but also unsettling — after all, Alphard was so very prickly that Hermione had grown accustomed to questioning every move he made.

She got back to her room, which was in total disarray due to Walburga and Irma's visit. With another loud groan, she flicked her wand, whisking away all of the 'unsuitable' robes and piling them on a chair in the corner. She had to weave around the many trunks of possible wedding costumes to get to her desk, and of course, she immediately checked to see whether the scroll had opened. It still remained stubbornly closed, and with a sigh of frustration, Hermione took out her stationary and began writing a letter to Dumbledore.

Her quill hovered over the parchment. _I don't want to tell him_, she thought miserably. How could she possibly explain everything without giving everything away? She slumped in her seat, chewing on the end of her quill and narrowing her eyes in thought. All she needed to do was make sure that Dumbledore knew enough to cooperate, but no more than that. After all, Dumbledore was a clever and often manipulative man. She respected him, of course, but she'd learned quite a bit about him from Harry's stories. Dumbledore was secretive and did not trust those around him to measure up to his own cleverness.

_Sort of like me..._ she mused. Well, there was nothing wrong with being careful. And she'd trusted Alphard with plenty, anyway. _I'll guide him in the direction of the Horcruxes_. If Dumbledore realized that they had to ensure that Tom Riddle did not kill any more people, he would definitely think twice about tossing some of the current best Aurors in the young Voldemort's path.

Satisfied with her plan, Hermione sent an owl to Dumbledore with possible meeting times. Once more she checked the scroll, in vain, before giving up and going to bed. Her dreams were fevered and vivid; she was running down infinite stone corridors and someone was chasing her. Every time she rounded a bend, she would look over her shoulder and see just the fingertips of an elegant hand reaching towards her...but then she'd get away just in time.

It didn't take a Divination professor to tell her what this meant: Tom — _Voldemort,_ she reminded herself — was hot on her tracks, and she was just one trick away from falling prey to him once more.

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><p>The sun was setting; the sky was a deep pink now, and fading to a shadowed purple that would soon give way to night. Autumn sunsets were always the most intense — nature's last cry of beauty before the world began to die again. Tom stared out at the sunset, recalling last autumn's sunsets, and remembering those hectic, fleeting days — and remembering Hermione.<p>

The way she had left him today, in Diagon Alley, was so strikingly reminiscent of one of the first days they had known each other. Before the school year had started, he could recall running into her in Hogsmeade. She had seemed so upset with him, and yet, she had gotten the better of him — she had walked away, leaving him there. At that time, no one had ever cheeked him like that, so freely.

Not that it mattered. She had been one small piece of the puzzle of his life at that time; and anyway, in the end, he had bested her, had he not? It had been so amusing to knock her down, to see her so captivated by him.

The invitation, an innocent piece of parchment and clearly designed by Irma Black, lay on his cluttered desk in the candlelight. The wedding was set for the very last day of September. Tom's grey eyes roved over the elegant but austere script, waiting for some sort of emotion to come to him, but nothing did — not until he recalled how suddenly Hermione had slipped through his fingers today, silvery as water and intangible as smoke. Then, fury white-hot as lightning bolts surged through him.

Still, he had learned to remain detached from his fury. Tom held up the invitation to the light, feeling but not acknowledging his rage. He had lived his life so far removed from the pitiful emotions that others seemed to display, and while he understood them in a clinical sense, he himself rarely felt such emotions other than rage or triumph.

_We invite you to celebrate with us this happy occasion..._

Happy occasion? How could a wedding possibly be considered a happy occasion? Never mind that happiness, in the benign sense, was something Tom wasn't quite sure he'd ever known. He certainly would have classified his time at Hogwarts as the happiest of his life, and yet, did he know happiness? Did he know love, or sadness, or loneliness, as others around him did?

It was impossible. Tom closed his eyes, picturing Hermione in her white wedding robes standing next to Alphard in his crisp black dress robes. He waited for some emotion, but there was nothing there. He could easily picture their smiles; he could easily conjure what simpering affection might put a twinkle in both pairs of brown eyes... And when he went to the wedding, he would congratulate them; he would pretend to become overcome with emotion at the union of two people...

But inside he would feel nothing.

...Would he?

The invitation burst into flame; Tom watched it with hard, flinty eyes. Yes, he supposed he would feel something: he would feel hatred.

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><p>Hermione, Walburga, and Irma ventured to the Parisian Wizarding atelier, Jacques, the next day. On a pedestal in front of a silver-edged mirror, Hermione stood still (quite patiently, in her own opinion) as Jacques and his assistant Cosette pulled, tied, pinned, braided, and tightened parts of her outfit and hair. She'd been ordered to keep her eyes closed, and even though she found the whole affair frivolous, her heart was still pounding with the prospect of seeing herself done up in a wedding outfit.<p>

She couldn't help but think back to all of her old dreams of Ron. Compared to her nightmares about Harry, and all of the waking moments spent reflecting on his sacrifice and bravery and selflessness, Hermione rarely thought of Ron anymore. She felt guilty about it, to be honest. Her romance with Ron had once been so all-consuming for her, and now, given as much time as she spent thinking of the future, her thoughts so rarely drifted to Ron.

The atelier room was lovely; enormous windows overlooked the Rue Dauphin and the warm autumn sunlight set the sumptuous bolts of every fabric imaginable aglow. Fabrics that shimmered like fairy dust; fabrics that twinkled like stars. It was a dreamy place. Unfortunately, she could not occupy her mind with gazing at all of the beauty around her, because apparently Jacques wanted his 'genius' creation to be a surprise.

Jacques said something loftily in French to Cosette; Cosette turned to Irma. "Mademoiselle may open her eyes now, he says," said the girl.

Hermione opened her eyes and was seized with horror. She appeared to be being consumed by a white Chantilly lace sea anemone. In the mirror, she saw Irma and Walburga's faces; though they had pasted on tight smiles, she could see her own horror reflected in their eyes. _For once, we agree on something,_ she thought wryly.

"He says that the Mademoiselle's features are...erm...how do you say? Boring? Yes, so he says she needs a more interesting gown."

"Merci, Jacques," said Irma flatly. "But the wedding is to be a small affair — perhaps this gown is too..._magnificent__..._for such a small party."_  
><em>

Hermione shot Irma a grateful smile, and several more hours were lost to Jacques throwing a tempertantrum then consequently locking himself in his room and sobbing and drinking. By the time Cosette and Irma had coaxed him out again, Hermione's legs ached from standing on the dais for so many hours without reprieve, her stomach was grumbling, and she was getting less and less patient by the second.

An owl arrived at the window, and Hermione froze. It was a lovely snowy owl, nearly identical to the one that had delivered the parcel from her future self. Cosette hastened to the window to open it, and the owl dropped a folded scrap of paper into her hands before taking off without so much as a hoot.

"It is addressed to you, Mademoiselle," said Cosette, handing her the paper. Warily Hermione opened it, though luckily Irma and Walburga were still coaxing a very inebriated Jacques out of his room, so they were too distracted to nose in on her letter.

_Remember the Veil_.

Hermione blinked and stuffed the paper in the pocket of her robes, which lay discarded over a plush brocade chair. The veil? Was her future self _actually_ exploiting the timeline to offer wedding costume advice?

Wait.

Hermione frantically dug the scrap of parchment out of the pocket again, staring at it hungrily. _Veil is capitalized,_ she realized. She knew she never did things like that by accident. _I must mean the Veil in the Department of Mysteries... _

"He says he will design something plain," drawled Irma as Walburga led a red-eyed Jacques over to them. Cosette began to coo something in French, and to Hermione's complete surprise and irritation, Irma snatched the scrap of parchment out of her hands. "Who in Salazar's name is this from?"

"P-probably Amelia," Hermione stammered. Irma snorted and tossed the scrap over her shoulder.

"Blood Traitor," she declared loftily. "Veils are so..._Muggle_," she added in disgust. Hermione's blood seemed to light on fire, and it took a great deal of effort to not Hex Irma on the spot. Instead, recalling her mission and Alphard's warning, she forced her lips to push outward into a pained smile. "Are you alright, darling? You look like you've become constipated," said Irma suspiciously, studying Hermione closely.

"I was just thinking of how disgusting it would be to have a Mudblood fashion polluting my perfect day," Hermione said in a leaden, robotic voice. Apparently Irma was either tone-deaf or simply a moron, because she clapped her hands together and sighed.

"Oh, my son _did_ do well in choosing you, Hermione. Such a lovely girl," she said fondly. When she turned back to Jacques, however, Hermione could not stop herself from retching silently at Irma's back.

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><p>Hours later, Hermione was feeling so violently irritable that she genuinely feared that if she did not get out of Irma and Walburga's company soon, she might actually Avada Kedavra the pair of them. However, Irma insisted on Owling Alphard to meet them all at the Black Estate for a proper supper to 'celebrate' being one giant leap closer to the wedding.<p>

When the trio Apparated back to Black Estate, Alphard was already there. They arrived in the back kitchen garden to find Alphard, Tom, and some of the other Knights sitting on the terrace, enjoying an early Firewhiskey before dinner.

"Tom Riddle!" squawked Walburga, noisily tromping across the grass to throw herself at Tom. Over Walburga's shoulder, Hermione's eyes met Tom's. A slow, private smile curved his pale lips, and for one moment, Hermione was his entirely. Then, reality came crashing back, and she looked to Alphard.

"Sweetheart, I got the perfect wedding gown," she sighed loudly, meeting Alphard in the middle. They shared a soft kiss, earning whoops and wolf whistles from the other Knights and sighs of happiness from Walburga and Irma. Alphard played his part well: he slipped an arm round her middle, pulling her closer and looking down at her.

He was an excellent actor. For all the world, Alphard looked so enamored of her and so in love with her that it left her flustered and blushing in spite of herself. Especially since she happened to know that Alphard was obviously losing any romantic interest in her, his convincing act impressed her all the more.

"You'd look lovely in a mandragora sack, darling," he said fondly, leading her by the elbow into the parlor through the French glass doors.

"Alright, alright," said Avery loudly. "Let's not get too lovey-dovey."

"Yeah, save it for the bedroom — sorry, Mrs. Black," apologized Nott hastily.

"Oh, boys," tittered Irma.

The other Knights excused themselves. To avoid saying good-bye to Tom, Hermione went to the bathroom as they all gathered by the front door.

The first-floor loo was situated down the hall, beyond the kitchen, and the silence was more welcome than she had expected. Hermione sank down onto the tiled floor for a moment, letting herself take in the refreshing coolness of the tile. Feeling she had mastered herself well enough, Hermione rose to her feet, splashed some water on her cheeks, and opened the bathroom door.

Tom was waiting outside in the hall. Still wearing his black suit as per usual, the darkness of his eyes and the hollows beneath his cheekbones were heightened, contrasting with his alabaster skin. In the shadow of the hall, he was all shadow and angles.

"Riddle. Long time no see," she greeted shortly, stepping aside. She moved to retreat back to the others, but quite abruptly Tom stuck his arm out, barring the way. She was hit with his scent, and suddenly was awash in memories of last autumn, when she had first been so teased and tantalized by that particular scent; how it had haunted her waking life and her dreams. Hermione could recall reading that scent was the most associative of senses; humans, more than with sound or touch or taste, tied certain scents to certain memories. The smell of home, more than the sound of a parent's voice, for example, could trigger powerful homesickness.

She met Tom's eyes, and crossed her arms over her chest. "Yes?"

"I heard you're quite the accomplished Occlumens, and some of my...friends...could use a bit of tutoring," said Tom, cocking an elegant brow. He drummed his fingers on the wall, and the noise distracted her.

"You're asking me to teach your friends Occlumency?"

"Always the quick wit, Macmillan." The use of her surname — her fake one, of course — was noteworthy for two reasons: one, it implied more distance than there had once been between them, and two, it was a reminder of the wedding soon to take place — and all that that wedding had meant and would mean for the two of them.

Out of context, it was a bit heartbreaking to her. In spite of everything, Tom was the first man she had shared everything of her body with, and it had not been just one time, either. It seemed wrong to be marrying someone else, so quickly, in light of all that had happened between them.

Of course, in context, it was perfectly correct. It was abhorrent that she had ever shared more than a textbook with young Voldemort, and of course, she wasn't marrying Alphard for love — she was marrying Alphard, the better to defeat Voldemort, eventually. Yet somehow, with all of this, she couldn't help but feel a bit sorry. She studied Tom's face freely, reminded of all of the compelling debates they had shared, all of the private smirks at the expense of lesser intellects. In so many ways, she had found her equal in Tom, and she could admit now that she still had feelings for that side of him: the handsome, clever, witty young man who knew how to wear a suit.

But wasn't that man just an effigy; wasn't that man in her imagination? It was all smoke and mirrors, none of Tom Riddle was real. He had created an image that would best manipulate the victims around him. She knew it, and yet, still, she wanted so desperately to hold on to that image. She wanted so badly for that man to be real.

Because if that man, if that Tom, were to be real — well, there would be no contest. He would be the one.

"Do you think it would make Alphard happy, if I did that?" she asked now. Tom's eyes seemed to gleam red for one burning instant.

"Suddenly such a devoted little wife," said Tom silkily. He leaned in closer, his lips a hair's breadth from the shell of her ear, and spoke, "I recall a time not so long ago, when things were..._different__."_

"Darling? Riddle?"

Tom and Hermione pulled away abruptly; at the very end of the hall stood Alphard. "Is everything alright?"

"Perfectly fine, Black. Good to see you again," said Tom pleasantly, straightening his suitjacket and striding down the hall, towards Alphard. Alphard bowed as well as he could in the narrow hall, and Tom rounded the corner. She could hear him bidding Irma and Walburga goodbye; and then, to her immense relief and disappointment, he was gone.


	58. 58: We Become Ourselves

**Bad Romance**

**Chapter Fifty-Eight: We Become Ourselves**

**Author's Note**: Thanks to all who reviewed last time. I promise I will get around to review replies soon. Sorry for the delay. I am trying to plow through this story and get it done; as such, it has not been beta'd. All mistakes are my own. Expect the next chapter soon.

Disclaimer: the HP universe does not belong to me.

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><p>The day of the wedding had arrived, unseasonably warm and blazingly sunny, and Black Manor had been turned inside-out in honor of the preparations for the wedding. Hermione was already exhausted, but also frustrated, as the wedding had taken her attention away from more important matters. Now, she stood before her large mirror in her bedroom, in her wedding robes. Walburga and Irma had reluctantly allowed her a few moments to herself before she was to go downstairs with them to wait for the ceremony to begin. It was begin held in the garden, and the manor was already packed with Pureblood guests in the finest of robes, sipping elf-made wine and waiting for the biggest event of the season thus far.<p>

In spite of this furthering her cause ... she was overcome with a strange sadness. The robes they had finally decided on were lovely and simple, made of raw silk in a flattering shade of cream and cut to make the most of her figure. She was reminded of that moment, a year ago, standing in front of the mirror at Madame Kilfeather's shop, in the silvery robes that had been chosen for her for the Yule ball. How gaunt, how weakened, how frail she had been then! Before her today stood a different person entirely, in so many ways, going far deeper than simply the surface changes. In her dark eyes now was a wisdom that overtook the haunted quality her eyes had held a year ago. She was a woman now, in so many ways, and it filled her with sorrow and regret.

She had given so much to Voldemort, given so much for Harry and Ron and everyone else... here she was, marrying a man for strategy, not for love. Would anything ever be truly for her?

However, Hermione knew the answer to this: those private, stolen, clandestine moments with Tom had been for her, and her alone. Thinking of those moments, particularly that night in Paris, set her blood on fire with a passion that she had been forced to snuff out forever. How was it possible that she could have reached this point — this point where she could both love and hate a man this much? She had not thought it possible to feel this way. The thought of his elegant hands on hers was enough to send her heart racing with need, but the recollection of seeing those same elegant hands, fifty years later, clutching a yew wand and murdering her friends, filled her veins with a burning vitriol. For too long now she had been distinguishing between Tom and Voldemort, as though there were some seam between the two identities.

"Hermione, it's time," called Irma through the door impatiently. Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes, and listened to her frantic soon-to-be-mother-in-law clack back down the hall in her formal heeled boots. Hermione went to smooth her hair, which had been slicked back into a tightly coiled and sleek chignon, with tiny white flowers and pearls adorning it, when she realized her reflection was not...reflecting her. She waved her hands, but her mirror self stayed still.

"There's been another split," said the mirror Hermione. Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a shriek of surprise as she nearly toppled backwards. "This timeline got interfered with somehow," mirror Hermione continued in a fevered and panicked low voice. Hermione's mouth went dry as her stomach lurched in horror.

"What in Merlin's name am I supposed to do about it? I've got a wedding full of Death Eaters down there," Hermione hissed, her heart racing with this new information. "How do you know, anyway? How can you be sure?" This was a rather silly question, as this was herself she was speaking to — of course she was sure!

Mirror Hermione opened her mouth, eyes flashing with urgency, but just then the door burst open, revealing a frazzled Walburga.

"The wedding's about to start, and you're here lazing about while the rest of us suffer!" Walburga said acidly, setting her hands on her narrow hips. Hermione swallowed.

"I'll be right th-"

"Oh no, you're coming with me. You've delayed long enough. I won't let you back out of this wedding — it would soil our reputation!" Walburga ranted wildly, dragging Hermione out of the room and down the hall.

"I'm nervous," Hermione replied. This wasn't wholly a lie but she was not nervous for the reasons she was implying she was. As it was, however, she made a convincing case: in a mirror in the hall, she spotted her reflection and was aghast at how pale she had gone — she nearly blended in with her dress now — but it was furthered by seeing her reflection make frantic motions at her head.

What on earth was she doing? She knew her mirror self was trying to tell her something... but _what?_ Hermione tried to hide how her hands shook as Walburga led her to the side parlor, which they were using as the bridal room, as it also led out into the garden. The curtains were drawn, to hide them from the guests, and in the room were Walburga, Irma, and Amelia. Upon seeing Amelia, Hermione felt herself relax a little, and she allowed Amelia to pull her into a tight hug.

"You look so beautiful," wept Amelia after they pulled away. Irma squawked at Amelia for almost ruining Hermione's gown with her sobbing — thankfully Amelia was, in fact, from a very noble line of Purebloods, so Irma was a bit restrained in her cruelty, out of respect — and Hermione allowed Walburga to fuss over her hair decorations. She drew in deep calming breaths, her keen mind working a mile a minute. How had _other_ Hermione gotten into the mirror, and what had she been trying to tell her?

"And now, the final touch — the veil." Irma's voice was reverent and strained with emotion. "I can't believe Alphard is getting married — I never thought it would happen..." She sniffed a little and began to set the veil on her head as a realization struck Hermione as though a lightning bolt had hit her.

Her reflection had been gesturing to her head — meaning, she was probably trying to convey something about the Veil.

Now she felt she really might throw up.

"And to a Pureblood, thank Merlin," simpered Walburga, dabbing at her eyes with a lace kerchief. She spotted Hermione cover her mouth to stop herself from indeed vomiting. "Oh, dear, don't fuss — this is the happiest day of your life!"

No, it was most certainly one of the _worst_ days, Hermione reflected. Dots flickered in her vision, suggesting she might faint, and she grappled at Amelia for support.

"Shh, you'll be fine," soothed Amelia. From outside came the sounds of the music playing a lilting, haunting melody — the traditional Pureblood wedding song. It was time.

There was something wrong with the Veil, at the very time she could do absolutely nothing about it. Even within an hour she would be able to escape, but for now, she was, for all intents and purposes, imprisoned here — and in an hour it might be too late. The feeling was horrible, claustrophobic, suffocating. "It's time," whispered Amelia in her ear. Hermione nodded wordlessly, gripping Amelia's strong arm as a point of security. _I'll solve it, I'll make it right_, she told herself, blinking back tears.

Walburga waved her wand and the doors swept open, revealing the garden bedecked in silver and white, with a conjured wrought iron archway at the head of the seating, where Tom, Alphard, Cygnus, and the wizard who would be reading the vows stood. As was custom, Alphard was faced toward Hermione, watching her approach him, and Amelia, Irma, and Walburga would be walking her up the aisle.

It was so contrary to her understanding of what a wedding should be that it set her even more ill at ease — especially when Tom turned towards her. He was garbed in immaculate emerald robes that accentuated his height and svelte form, and the hollows beneath his cheekbones and the smooth pale lips and the dark, wicked, clever eyes still held power over her that was sanguine and immediate.

The wedding march began to play as she was led along the aisle. Guests were crying, murmuring their appreciation, as she walked past them. Belatedly her eyes met Alphard's warm brown eyes and she expected him to offer some sort of reassuring smile, as he often did. But, on the contrary, he looked weak and stricken. This wasn't easy for him, either, she realized. She felt guilty for forgetting that she wasn't the only one sacrificing a great deal here — Alphard was, perhaps, sacrificing even more than her, in some ways. Still, in his gauntness and pain she recalled Sirius just after his escape from Azkaban. Unexpectedly, strength and courage bloomed within her at this memory, and she found herself smiling through her tears, fear, pain, and conflict at Alphard. There was a flash of uncertainty in his eyes before he returned the smile hesitantly.

"We gather here today to witness the union of two young people," squeaked the tiny wizard. Hermione took her place across from Alphard. He was clad in crisp black wedding robes and, of course, probably many a girl in the wizarding world was sad today to see him married off, based on his appearance alone. Hermione's smile broadened with the humor of it all. Alphard's lips twitched**. **_**We'll** solve it, **we'll** make it right, _she corrected herself. His hair, normally wild, was combed wetly and away from his face, though a few locks had already escaped.

As dictated by the ceremony, Alphard now took her hands in his. His hands were warm and dry, and slightly calloused from Quidditch, and she squeezed his hands in hers. He laced their fingers together in response. "...For when you give yourself to another, you do not become less yourself, you become more of yourself, you become more of the person you were meant to be," continued the wizard. This struck Hermione unexpectedly. _The person you were meant to be..._ What a concept, to think that all of her steps, no matter how many times she returned back in time, would lead her to this union with Alphard. What a concept, to think that no matter what, Alphard was a part of her and she of him...

It didn't matter that they weren't in love in a romantic sense — he was her partner. They had grown together, both had grown so much in the last year, both had changed... Already she could see so many changes in Alphard, already he was becoming the man who would one day help Sirius escape the tyranny of his family — because of her.

_We become more of ourselves..._

This was a real marriage, she realized — this was a true union. It was not romantic, it was not happy, but it was _real_. She bit her lip as Alphard accepted the ring from Tom, and turned to set it on her finger. Over their joined hands, her eyes met Tom's_._

There was a last, burning, fleeting hope of seeing some sort of emotion, some sort of jealousy, in his eyes — but she was met with nothing but ice.

Her tears streamed down her cheeks as she slid Alphard's ring on his finger, to the music which was accompanied by clapping. "You may kiss your wife."

Alphard appeared uncertain for only an instant before he stepped forward, a cocky half-smirk lighting up his features, at long last, and he grasped her hands and pulled her closer. She heard Irma let out a sob as Alphard's lips met hers in a soft, intimate kiss. She felt his eyelashes — almost too long for a boy, longer than hers, certainly — brush her cheek. She breathed in his familiar scent. It was not a scent she loved, but a scent she knew, a scent she trusted. She closed her eyes, barely detecting Tom's scent from here. How much had she lost due to desire? Desire was fleeting as a flame, and just as destructive, but trust was like stone — heavy, worn and carved by the years and elements, but forever and permanent.

They were ushered down the aisle amidst unrefined cheering, clapping, whoops, and jubilant music, with everyone around them. Hermione allowed Alphard to sling his arm rakishly around her waist.

"I need to investigate something, will you cover for me?" she breathed in his ear as they walked. Alphard wisely tilted his head to her and pressed a long, searing kiss to her lips, stopping everyone mid-walk and nearly causing a pile-up in the middle of the garden.

"No, we'll go together, it'll look like we sneaked off for alone time," he whispered back as he dipped her, earning more wolf-whistles.

He righted her again and the party was moved into Black Manor. Fine elf-made wine was shoved at her as Pureblood after Pureblood came up to congratulate them. The entire time, Alphard stood there, his arm firmly round her waist. But off to the side, standing with Malfoy, Nott, Avery, and the others, was Tom, regarding her with eyes dark as the night. It was setting her further on edge. If only she could find her mirror self again...

"Excuse me. Too much wine at once," she said with a false giggle to excuse herself as she broke away from Alphard. She pretended to kiss him on the cheek so she could whisper, "I'll be back in a second," in his ear.

It took quite some time to make it out of the large room, as everyone wanted to stop her and talk. Many people from Hogwarts wanted to know where she'd been all spring, and it was nearly a half hour before she'd made it across the room. She slid the carved doors shut and heaved a sigh of relief in the cool, dark silence, and was just about to bolt up the stairs when Geoffrey stepped in front of her, looking frantic. He'd lost quite a bit of weight; his hair was nearly as unruly as Harry's; and he was beginning to sport an untidy beard. He must have been waiting to get her alone... he was wearing rumpled Auror robes, so he had come from work.

"There's been a break-in at the Ministry."

"Department of Mysteries?" she replied shrewdly as Geoffrey dragged her into a dark alcove. His eyes widened.

"How-"

"I'll explain later. It's the Veil, right?"

"Exactly. And I think I know the culprit, but if I try to tell anyone, I'll get send to St Mungo's faster than you can say mental," panicked Geoffrey as he paced, raking his hands through his thick hair, pulling at it as though to rip it out. Hermione grasped his wrists and freed his hair, even as her blood turned to ice. She'd never seen Geoffrey like this — he looked possessed. He turned grave eyes to her, and she cast Muffliato to reassure him.

"Who was it?" she breathed. Geoffrey bit his lip.

"...He should have been here. All accounts say he's been here all morning," he whispered, his eyes wild and flashing. Hermione's stomach dropped as her guts began to churn.

Something had gone very, very wrong.

"Come with me," she ordered, not bothering to respond as she practically hurled Geoffrey at the stairs. They bounded up the stairs and to her bedroom, and Hermione cast wards and locked the door. She went to the mirror, and waved her hands. Her reflection did not wave back.

"What the bloody hell-"

"The Voldemort from my timeline is here. I don't have much time. But he's found out what I'm doing, and he's going to try and stop us," hissed mirror Hermione. Geoffrey looked as though he'd been clunked on the head. Hermione wanted to scream, she wanted to cry, she wanted to panic — but there was no time. _We become more of ourselves. _She thought of Alphard, his wan and weary eyes brightening with hope as he had slid the ring onto her finger... Yes, this was who she had meant to become all along.

"You need to get the Aurors and get everyone out of here," she said, turning to Geoffrey. "He'll be sure to come here and if he finds anyone, he'll kill them. I'll explain later. Go. _Now._"

Thank goodness Geoffrey was so smart, so pragmatic — he simply nodded and turned, and with a loud _crack,_ had disappeared.

She turned back to the mirror, but it was just her reflection again. She blinked at her reflection, watching her eyes grow red with tears, watching her face grow pale... then become flushed with determination. Fiercely she wiped at her eyes, and then turned to the door. She turned the knob and saw Alphard standing there, in the cool darkness of the hall, his jaw set. In this moment he looked so strikingly like Sirius that it took her breath away. His hair had become rumpled from, presumably, too much wine, and his robes were already mussed, but he was there, and he was prepared to fight.

"We've got to go to the Ministry. Geoffrey is going to bring the Aurors here to move everyone," she explained in a low voice. She watched Alphard's adam apple move up and down as he swallowed, then licked his lips. She found her fingers moving, sensing the weight of the silver band on her right hand.

What a strange notion, that your self was a destination, not a beginning, and yet, it was a foundation too, wasn't it? As though at a certain point, the dust and leaves of years of life began to be stripped away, returning you to your truest self. She thought of Tom and Voldemort. She thought of what Harry had told her that Voldemort, as the Horcrux, had said to him in the Chamber of Secrets: _Voldemort is my past, present, and future. _

Tom had been the dust and leaves hiding the foundation, and his life had become a destination towards becoming Voldemort: his true self. There was no seam, there was no difference — it was merely a trick of the light, merely a misheard word. The man she had fallen for, lusted after, desired with all her mind, body, and soul, was nothing more than dust hiding the truth.


	59. Duel

**Bad Romance**

**Chapter Fifty-Nine: Duel**

Author's Note: I wasn't kidding when I said the next update would be soon (comparatively, anyway) :P We're nearing the end, kiddies. This chapter is un-betaed, and, also, since ffnet is being a little bitch about formatting, I'm using '000' as page breaks instead of the usual lines. Anyway, thanks for all your lovely reviews! I promise I will get to them shortly ;)

Disclaimer: the HP universe does not belong to me.

000

They were Apparating to the Ministry; when they reached the main vestibule, Alphard and Hermione were met with unexpected chaos. Scores of Aurors and other Ministry officials were crowding the Atrium, and Garret could be seen directing one smaller group, whilst Geoffrey was dealing with the others.

"It's happening," called Garrett over the din, when his brown eyes alighted on Alphard and Hermione. He wended his way through the crowd, with some well-placed minor Hexes, to Hermione and Alphard. "You look ravishing. A blushing bride," he remarked offhandedly as he assessed Hermione's wedding robes. "Anyway, Dumbledore's dueling Grindelwald at Nurmengard and there might be a war and everyone might die." The forcedly casual air with which he delivered this news betrayed his nervousness, and Hermione found herself becoming even more uneasy. She hadn't seen Garrett looking actually anxious before, and it was an alien sight.

"Are you bloody serious?!" Alphard cried, pulling at his hair. Garrett's eyes widened in surprise.

"What, you don't think he'll win?" he asked dubiously. For once, Hermione was on Alphard's side, though Garrett didn't know why. Voldemort definitely had chosen _today_ on purpose — when Dumbledore was indisposed in another part of the continent and attention was turned towards the high-profile Pureblood wedding. She brandished her wand.

"Never mind that, Alphard. He'll be fine. We've got to focus on our part of things," she reassured him. Garrett was peering at them shrewdly.

"Does this have anything to do with ickle Geoffy needing half the Aurors and the break-in at the-"

"Yes," interrupted Alphard and Hermione in unison. Alphard roughly pushed Garrett out of the way as they began sprinting against the tide of the crowd, forcing their way towards the lifts. In her peripheral vision, Hermione spotted Geoffrey directing a group of Aurors towards the exits, his expression grim. It was a relief to see him, so reliable and prepared for chaos, and handling things just fine on his own. _You can see so much of Harry in him, _Hermione thought fondly.

"Well, I've got to say, this has been the most eventful wedding I've ever been to," said Alphard as they finally boarded the lift to the Department of Mysteries, where they were, at least momentarily, ensconced in ominous silence. Hermione smirked as she recalled Bill and Fleur's wedding.

"It's at least a tie, for me," she replied with some humor, in spite of everything. Under all this pressure she no longer felt quite so much fear, perhaps because she was in shock that, all of a sudden, all of this was happening. She longed to communicate with her mirror-self, as she had no idea of what she would do when she met this version of Voldemort. Killing him was out of the question, as was subduing him... What in Merlin's name was she supposed to do?

"So... do we have a plan?" The lift was ascending and, to her surprise, she felt Alphard's fingers lace with hers. "Mrs. Black," he added wryly. Hermione found herself grinning as she squeezed Alphard's hand. "We're just winging it, aren't we?" he confirmed. Hermione nodded.

"Pretty much."

"Well... great. Very nice. I'm excited," Alphard replied sarcastically. "Let's get to it, then."

"Department of Mysteries," stated the cool female voice. The grate slid aside, and Hermione and Alphard stepped off the lift together.

She had no plan, no powerful alliances, no idea of what to expect — this was on Harry's level of impulsivity and sheer, blind bravery. Or, perhaps, it was beyond Harry even. Hermione wiped her palms on her gown. Oh yes, and she was wearing a big poofy set of immaculate white silk wedding robes. No, this wasn't going to end badly at all. Of course not.

They crept towards the center as the doors began to spin. Alphard peered around, looking grim.

"Oh, I should let you know..." he began, as they each studied the doors around them.

"Yes?" Hermione asked wearily. "I'm not going to like this, am I?"

"Riddle assigned Malfoy and I to be in charge of the Knights for a few days. Said he's got some errands to run."

"Lovely. And you waited until now to tell me this because...?"

"Well, I only just found out before we left."

"Fair enough," sighed Hermione.

They selected a door and began working their way through the Department of Mysteries; however, thus far, there were no signs of a break-in. Had the Aurors already cleared everything up? Her heart was pounding as adrenaline coursed through her body. The last time she had been here, things had not gone well, though in retrospect, it could have been much worse. She thought of Sirius falling through the Veil, and, unexpectedly even to her, she suddenly stopped mid-step. She turned back to Alphard.

"What?" His brows were arched and Hermione studied his face, feverishly.

"I ... what we're about to do is dangerous. We might not live." There was no point in beating round the bush. Alphard's adam's apple bobbed as he gulped, though his eyes were burning points of ferocity.

"I saw your memories, Hermione. I know what we're up against." His voice was leaden, heavy. Hermione drew in a shuddering breath. "I know that this was where my future nephew — Merlin, that sounds freakish to say — died," continued Alphard. He raked a hand through his wild hair. "I don't... I don't want to live in the world that Riddle wants to create." His eyes roved over her face in a panicked fashion. "I am prejudiced. I know I am. I know I'm elitist, and snobby, and selfish, and impulsive, and cruel, and I'm not like _you_. But..." he paused and took his hands in hers, "...but I want to be like you."

Hermione turned away, blinking back emotion burning in her eyes. "We all choose what to do with our one life, and this — this is what I want to do with mine. However long my life is, this is what I want to do with it." He was frantic, and sounded so _young_. Her heart was breaking. She clutched at her chest, feeling weak. _We all choose what to do with our one life. _Death had seemed so near for so long... she thought of the Deathly Hallows story and let out a sob. She would greet Death as an old friend, certainly, because Death had been on her mind for many, many years now. But did Alphard truly understand the meaning of dying? Did he really think it was worth it to give up his life for this?

His experiences were so limited, and yet, he was a part of Riddle's inner circle — even before Hermione had shown him the future, he had seen something in Riddle, and in spite of all of his prejudices, all of his flaws, he had backed away in horror. Not many people would have done the same — in fact, very few had at all.

"I want to be like you, too," she replied in a strained voice. "I'm so proud to say you're my husband," she admitted. She felt Alphard's hand on her back. "I know we're not in love, and we probably never will be — but you've grown into the sort of man who I would be very happy to love," she added.

"I know I was a total git to you, before." She could hear the smile in Alphard's voice. "But that's because I _was_ a total git. I don't want to be that person anymore." His arms circled her from behind and he pressed his cheek to her shoulder. He was still shorter than a lot of the boys she knew, and was only a few inches taller than her; thus, it was quite a comfortable position. "I want to fight against Riddle," he whispered. "I want to give future generations the life and freedom that we'll never have."

She swallowed her fears. Alphard was a flawed man, but he wanted to grow. Couldn't she say the same for herself? She was terribly ashamed of her behavior in the past year — but now was the time to change. She reached up and squeezed Alphard's hand.

"Thank you." This was everything.

They continued towards where the Veil ought to have been, wands drawn and ears strained for any warnings of Voldemort's presence.

"He's probably not here," Alphard said, finally. Privately, Hermione agreed with him. There was some part of her that was illogically certain that she possessed some sort of sixth sense, for perceiving Voldemort's presence, and nothing in her body was telling her he was here.

They reached the room. It was empty; there was no Veil there, any longer, nor was there Voldemort. The silence was piercing. "You know, you've got to give him credit," remarked Alphard as he leisurely walked into the center of the room. "I saw that thing when I first started here — it's not exactly pocket-sized." He paused, surveying the room. "I mean, what I really don't get, is _why_ the Veil."

"My future self was doing research on it," Hermione said woodenly. After all of the adrenaline, she felt like dropping to her knees and sobbing. Alphard grimaced.

"Okay, so that means he knows about your other self's research."

"Exactly."

"Great. Fantastic."

For several long, awful moments, they stood there, at a complete loss. The Veil was gone, her scroll was still locked, as far as she knew, and now everyone would know something horrible had occurred, because the Aurors were storming Black Manor — not exactly a subtle occurrence.

"And whatever errands this timeline's Riddle had to run... are probably not good either," she finally said, wiping her brow miserably. Alphard groaned.

"Okay, new plan: you and Potter come up with some cover — maybe the duel with Grindelwald, I don't know — and we resume the wedding, but I insist that Riddle make a toast, to ensure he is there."

"That is the flimsiest plan I have ever heard," Hermione retorted. Alphard scoffed.

"Well, if you've got a better one..."

"Not really," Hermione admitted bleakly. "My plans are sort of known for going to rubbish."

"That explains a lot," Alphard snarked. Hermione's instinct was to become angry with him, but when she saw the twinkle in his eyes, she knew he was just trying to cheer her up. She smiled weakly at him — then, almost like a bolt of lightning, a realization hit her.

"Oh my god. He was going to kill Hepzibah Smith today." She clapped her hands over her mouth. "That was the errand he needed to run. Oh my god. Merlin's pants!"

"Kill Hepzibah Smith? The old lady with all the shit in her house?" Alphard asked dumbly, blinking in confusion. "Why would he kill _her_? Really, just give her a few more biscuits and she'll explode-"

"Alphard, he's going to make a Horcrux today. He's going to take the locket, and he's going to kill her, and he's going to frame her House Elf, Hokey. We have to go there first." She rose to her feet and began sprinting towards the door.

"What? I thought your plan was to let him create all of the Horcruxes so as not to alter the timeline-"

"Yes," she conceded, pausing at the doorway to look back at Alphard, "but Voldemort's not stupid. He'll be there to make sure we can't stop it."

000

Black Manor was in utter chaos, and it was at this moment that Tom could act. He stood as one point of calm in the calamity. Aurors were rushing guests out of the parlor and rounding them up in the garden; the silver chairs where the guests had sat for the ceremony were knocked over; the place was in utter disarray. Tom was preparing to Disapparate — he couldn't exactly hang around all day, when he had so very many things to do today — but a strong hand closed round his arm.

Geoffrey Potter was standing there, gripping his arm like a vice, his brown eyes flinty.

"Riddle. Good to see you again. Perhaps you can help."

There was something extra about Geoffrey that Tom had always despised, something beyond the revulsion he carried for all human beings as a default. Perhaps it was two powerful lines of Pure magical blood clashing, for it felt almost primal in its manifestation. Even so, now was not the time to express such feelings. There would be time later — oh yes, there certainly would be. Just thinking this was enough to propel Tom to paste a smile on his face.

"Lovely to see you again, too. I don't see what the problem is, Potter. Really, you've interrupted the most exciting event of the year." He cast his hand around, gesturing to the now decimated wedding site. "And for what?"

"Well, Dumbledore is essentially single-handedly ending the reign of Grindelwald. Pureblooded Brits aren't safe, I would imagine," Geoffrey said wryly. Something new flashed in his eyes, something that _scared_ Tom.

"You're so pragmatic, to have come here and evacuate these helpless people," Tom said sweetly. He reached up to Geoffrey's face, their gazes locking. "Hold on. You've got something on your jaw."

Inside his dress robes, he reached and closed his free hand around his wand. _Legilimens._

Delving into Potter's mind was like leaping into a quite solid brick wall — the man was truly becoming a skilled Auror, and he had obviously been prepared for this particular attack — but not prepared enough.

One word, one _name, _echoed throughout Geoffrey Potter's mind, swimming in his veins, glimmering in his eyes, curling around him like smoke.

_Voldemort._

000

It all made sense; it all _fit_. Hermione and Alphard reappeared outside of Hepzibah Smith's dilapidated manor. She wished for the Invisibility Cloak at this moment, but Disillusionment Charms would have to do. She cast them on both of them, and even so, still hid them behind a large boxwood shrub.

"You have to go back to the wedding and see if Riddle's still there," she whispered, clasping Alphard's hands. "If he's already gone, come back. If he's still there - detain him as long as you can. Whatever it takes."

"I'll say you've taken ill," replied Alphard. At once, he was gone.

Now it was just her, just her alone. Hermione rose from behind the shrubbery and regarded the old manor. The air was thick with magic: it swirled about her like the fallen autumn leaves, brushing along the treetops with a soft, barely-heard _hush, _and in the gusts of chilly air whipping her hair and gown about her.

He was here.

She began walking slowly towards the manor. She knew she ought to rush, but her movements were leaden and slow. Tom's magic was like a siren song, luring her closer to him, allowing him to strike. She was too drawn to him and it sickened her. _He's going to kill this woman so he can live longer. _The heinousness of this crime was beyond contemplation and yet why did her blood still sing for him?

She reached the front windows and peered inside. Riddle was in there, but... it was not Riddle.

He and Hepzibah were in her sitting room. It was difficult to make them out, in the dim lighting and amidst all the piles and stacks of antiques that did not belong to her. In the shadows of the house, they were seated, and Hermione made her way round the back, to the kitchen door. Hokey was there, clanging away as she ruined the kitchen with her cooking. She was too old to be cooking, too old to be in service. But in this case, it was lucky, for the noise covered up Hermione opening the back door and creeping into the kitchen. Hokey was muttering to herself.

Holding her breath, Hermione crept towards the hall. As she moved away from the kitchen, Hokey's clanging and crashing faded, and instead, her ears and heart were filled with the music of Voldemort's seductive, lilting, melodic baritone voice: the voice he used to charm. Her heart was in her throat; she felt she might suffocate. She crept along, scaling the wall, her eyes watering as the enormous amounts of dust in the house filled her nose.

And then she stood in the archway into the front room. A little vase of flowers sat on the table that looked absurdly tiny next to Hepzibah's elephantine form. She must have gained a hundred pounds and now was sprawling on her velvet and brocade setee which strained under her weight. In a little chair, drawn up close, Riddle sat.

Hepzibah perceived the difference too; though he certainly possessed the same voice as eighteen year old Tom Riddle Jr., his face was notably different. _This is the Voldemort from my mirror self's timeline. _Which meant he would be about forty, she estimated. Though there were no lines in his face, there was a disturbing darkness to his eyes, and almost a blur to his features. _He's experimenting with magic too much, _she realized, her stomach turning. _He's murdered too many people. _

He had gone too far.

000

"Looking for something?" Potter's voice was almost smug. Tom brushed his fingers over Geoffrey's jaw, feeling the unusual stubble there.

"I just realized how much you resemble Black, sometimes," he replied offhandedly, drawing his hand away. "Anyway, it was just a trick of the light. You've got nothing on your jaw."

His hand was shaking and he clenched it round his wand. Around them, Aurors were shouting and ladies were screaming and men were yelling, but they stood in the eye of the storm, regarding each other. Had Potter grown since graduation? They were now eye-to-eye.

"You just cast _Legilimens_, Riddle. What's the problem?"

Oh, how indelicate Potter could be sometimes. Tom could not command his lips against curling in disdain.

Suddenly, they were alone. The Aurors had escorted the last of the wedding guests out of the garden, and now they stood amongst the wreckage from the stampede.

Sometimes, words were useless. Sometimes, brute force was necessary.

_Crucio_.

Potter's eyes rolled back into his head as he let out a guttural scream, grappling at nothing in the air before sinking to his knees. Tom stood over him, watched with satisfaction as Potter clawed at the ground, screaming and rolling about and begging for release from the fiery pain.

Tom raised his wand. "_Ava-"_

A sharp _crack_ echoed off the walls of the garden; Potter's shrieks of pain came to an abrupt halt; Black was standing before them, his wild dark hair undone from its neat combing, his once immaculate robes rumpled, and his skin pale beneath his sparse freckles.

"Black. You've returned. Where did you go?" asked Tom almost conversationally. Geoffrey struggled to his feet, gasping and trembling, cold sweat dripping down his temple. Alphard's dark eyes roved between the two men before him.

"Hermione's taken ill. I had to get her away from the manor and to a safe place." Alphard was too good at lying; it rolled off his tongue far too easily. He turned to Potter. "Hm. You're not usually one to leave a job unfinished, my Lord."

He raised his wand, his eyes meeting that of Geoffrey's. "_Ava__-_"

"_Expelliarmus_," said Potter immediately, and Alphard's wand flew out of his hand and clattered on the moss-covered flagstone a few metres away. Alphard merely looked somewhat impressed and perhaps amused as he arched his brows at Geoffrey.

"Nicely done, mate." He gave a few loud claps. Geoffrey clumsily wiped sweat off his upper lip.

"You fucking piece of traitorous Slytherin shit," he growled. "Besides, haven't you heard the thing about the Killing Curse?"

"Evidently not," Alphard conceded, holding up his hands and backing away, towards his wand. "Please, enlighten me."

"You've got to mean it. _Stupefy_."

A jet of red light hit Alphard square between the eyes and knocked him to the ground. Geoffrey rounded on Tom, who lazily drew his own wand.

"_Steleus_." Geoffrey barely dodged the Hex; he was surprisingly swift. Tom expected him to retaliate with a basic defensive spell, but Geoffrey slashed his wand through the air with a fluidity and confidence that Tom had only observed in himself before. No spell was uttered but there was a terrible crunching sound, and Tom was nearly hit in the head with a chunk of stone from the garden wall.

It served as a distraction for all: for Alphard had used this moment to rise, bearing his wand. Alphard was not the most talented wizard, but Tom knew he was a ruthless and vicious dueler. Geoffrey may have increased in confidence and skill (yes, that much he would be forced to admit, at least in the privacy of his own mind) but Alphard's pure determination would be more than a match for him.

"_Diffindo_," Alphard snarled, a jet of red light ripping toward Geoffrey and tearing the sleeve of his deep blue Auror robes. Blood spurted through the air and slapped across the flagstone behind him in dark rusty splotches. Geoffrey barely acknowledged the wound, and again slashed his wand through the air. Chains shot forth, but Alphard dodged them just in time.

Seeing that these two were clearly occupied, Tom turned on the spot.

000

Malfoy, Avery, Nott, and Cygnus had Apparated to Diagon Alley, per Riddle's orders. The typically bustling street was a ghosttown due to its residents and customers having been hidden away in case of war, and the four teens walked along it in a daze.

"So we're just meant to wait here for him, then?"

"For the last time, brat, _yes_," seethed Nott over his shoulder at Cygnus. "A bit boring, though, isn't it?"

"How long will he be?"

"Who knows? Does it look like we know what he's up to?"

"He probably told Alphard," remarked Cygnus bitterly as he kicked at a stone on the street. This was a notion that was acidic to all four boys, and thus filled them all with spite and envy. Why Alphard? Why him, when he was clearly a traitor, clearly not loyal?

The four boys made their way to Knockturn Alley and loitered about the front of Borgin and Burke's. Cygnus, still a child in many ways, amused himself with making silly faces in the dusty glass panes of the window to try and tear his mind away from his unpleasant thoughts. His brother had been married today, and he had observed his entire family welcome a Mudblood into their midst, weeping with joy. He was still unsure of where to begin to process this, but it seemed a good place to begin would be pure revulsion. His family was soiled and they didn't even know it.

"Whoa. Look at that mask," said Avery, drawing Cygnus' attention away from his darker inner musings. Cygnus and the others hastened to peer into the window to where Avery was pointing. An eerie metallic mask, skeletal and yet, rounded like a child's face, sat on a black velvet cushion that was practically turned grey due to the fading from the sunlight as well as dust. His sister had a collection of shrunken heads, and though Cygnus would never admit it aloud, they gave him the chills, but that was nothing compared to this mask.

"It looks like a dead baby." Cygnus' bald yet true comment silenced the boys. They stood there in silence before Malfoy turned away, examining his pocketwatch.

"We ought to have masks, if we're going to be doing... this." He gestured around him vaguely. "We have no cover. Anyone could observe us. How will we advance in our careers if we're causing trouble all the time?"

"We won't need careers if this works out, stupid," sneered Avery. "Our Lord will rule and our _jobs_ will be to support him."

"You really think it'll be that simple?" Malfoy's derision was inherent in his face, he wore it like a second skin. He arched his blond brows at Avery. "You really don't think it'll take years of forging powerful connections, convincing the right people, spreading the word...? No, Avery, it _won't_ be that simple. We need to use our power naturally given to us as Purebloods to aid our Lord in his rise to power."

This was food for thought, and for a moment, they were all silent.

"Let's make masks," agreed Nott quietly. Nott was rather talented with magic, and they all observed as he picked up a loose stone from the cobblestone road. He effortlessly Transfigured it into a mask quite similar to the one sitting in the window of Borgin and Burke's. It gleamed silvery gold and its eyes were dark, empty sockets. Grinning, he pulled up the hood of his finely made traveling cloak, and set the mask over his face.

"Wicked," breathed Cygnus appreciatively. "Make one for me!" he demanded.

Soon all four boys were hidden behind similar masks, their cloaks ensconcing their forms and hiding their identities. It never occurred to any of them to hide as they slid on the masks, for they were all still foolish young boys. But hidden by the masks, they felt powerful, anonymous — a great, terrible, nameless force.

They traipsed back into Diagon Alley, bubbling with mischievous laughter. This was exciting, this was fun.

Avery was the first to do it: he whipped out his wand and pointed at Florean Fortescue's ice cream parlor. The windows shattered spectacularly, the falling shards glittering in the brilliant sunlight.

Cygnus couldn't cast any spells, but he was eager to join in on the fun. He ran to the Apothecary, which had barrels full of dragon scales and rat tails and worms in a group outside as an advert, and overturned them with a laugh. The scales clanged as they hit the ground. Nott was next, and he pointed his wand at the barrels, setting them ablaze.

Cygnus noted that Malfoy never once cast a spell, but he was there all the while, laughing and jeering and approving.

000

"Can you keep a secret, Tom?"

Tom leaned forward, his eyes twin points of shadow fixed on Hepzibah. He'd lost some of his talent; he was too desperate, and it was showing, and setting Hepzibah ill at ease. Hermione watched the woman lean back slightly, a flash of unease across her pudgy face. "Will you promise you won't tell Mr. Burke I've got it?" She seemed to be reconsidering divulging this particular tidbit of information. Hermione watched Tom sit back slightly; he was evidently recalculating, making adjustments accordingly. She watched him tilt his head to the side, and absently she scratched at her nose, which was itchy due to the copious amounts of dust in the manor.

"If you don't feel you trust me..." he began, looking almost hurt but also understanding. He had only partially ameliorated Hepzibah. "...I wouldn't want to put you in a difficult spot," he added gently. This was the tipping point, and Hepzibah's cheeks, already crimson with rouge, flushed almost violently.

"Well," she began, and then the worst thing possible happened.

Hermione sneezed.

She clapped a hand over her mouth — it had happened without any real warning! Hepzibah and Tom both started; Hepzibah clapped a hand to her massive bosom as Tom slowly rose from his chair, his posture tense and muscles coiled, like a stalking jaguar. Hermione's mouth went dry as she realized there was no easy escape. "Oh, dear, has Hokey been listening? Naughty, naughty Hokey!"

"I'll check on her," said Tom smoothly, his eyes fixated exactly on Hermione. "I'll just be a moment."

Hermione frantically made to back away; if she Apparated, it would only confirm her presence. She nonverbally cast a sneezing spell back towards the kitchen at Hokey as Tom slid the carved door to the parlor shut behind him. He pointed his wand and the door behind her, to the kitchen, slid shut as well, and suddenly they were thrown into darkness.

Her back hit the door — she was trapped. Sweating and shaking, she moved to turn on the spot, but Voldemort's hand was on her, and then his long, elegant fingers were closing round her throat.

"Got you."


	60. 60: The Hunted Hunter

**Bad Romance**

**Chapter Sixty: The Hunted Hunter**

Author's Note: Erm. Sorry for the delay. You all are going to hate me for this. I'M SORRY.

Disclaimer: the HP universe does not belong to me.

* * *

><p>Riddle had disappeared with a <em>crack<em> leaving Alphard and Geoffrey alone in the devastated garden. Geoffrey rose from a crouch, clutching his arm, blood seeping between his fingers. Alphard was nursing a broken nose, blood dribbling down over his chin and staining his shirt.

The two young men regarded each other warily.

"Sorry for pretending to try and kill you earlier," said Alphard in a nasal voice, offering a sheepish grin that was somewhat dimmed by the blood. Geoffrey rolled his eyes.

"It wasn't your most convincing effort. Usually you're so much better at lying," he parried. With a casual wave of his wand, he siphoned the blood off Alphard's face.

"We've got to get to Hepzibah Smith's manor," explained Alphard. "And, thanks."

"No problem. There's not much I can do about the broken nose for now, but you'll live. Probably."

"Oi, watch it, Potter," warned Alphard. "Come on, we'll side-along Apparate."

* * *

><p>"She'll hear. She'll hear when you kill me and your cover will be blown," hissed Hermione as her Disillusionment Charm melted away.<p>

"And that will obviously be a big problem ten minutes from now when she's dead too," said Voldemort smoothly, his grip tightening on her neck. Hermione scratched against the door, trying to make a scene and hopefully attract Hepzibah's notice, if nothing else to afford her enough of a distraction to put some distance between her and Voldemort. But his grip was tight. She struggled to breathe, and her lungs were filled not with the musty, stale scent of Hepzibah's manor, and not with the scent of Tom Riddle, but a musky, smokey scent — like burning embers in the forest. He was unfamiliar to her in the most primal of ways, and it was a relief. Had he been the Tom Riddle to whom she was accustomed, she might not have found the wherewithal to fight back properly.

But she was sinking, sinking... he dropped her limp form to the ground, and everything was spinning — she had nearly suffocated — and then, he was standing over her, holding his wand, and then everything around her was dissolving...

She is standing on a wet street. Soon she notices her feet are in high heeled black shoes, and an elegant wool coat protects her from the rain. She is standing before a gloriously lovely building, with an art nouveau facade, and when she enters the building, she finds herself standing on plush red carpeting, immersed in a room of silver and gold. She knows this place — after all, it's not been a year since she was last here. Faintly she can hear a string quartet and restrained laughter.

Everywhere, however, there is the scent of fire.

A faceless man takes her coat, and Hermione looks down to see the black dress she wore all those months ago, immortalized in her memory.

"That dress did catch my attention, I will admit."

Voldemort, at age forty, is striding towards her, in the immaculate black three piece suit and wool coat he was wearing on the day of this memory. He is all angles, all contrasts, and though he is no longer ethereally beautiful as he once was, the strangeness of him to her is compelling and tempting. Who is this man, _really_? This man is the in-between, this man is the long-lost man that nobody could recall. Nobody knows about the lost years of Voldemort, and yet here he is...

Even still, she knows those eyes, those shadow-colored eyes, dark as smoke and just as tumultuous.

"Why have you brought me here?"

"I was just about to ask you the very same thing," he parries, finally reaching her. This close, in this far improved lighting, she observes that he actually does have a few fine lines — frown lines. The hollows beneath his eyes are sunken; he looks weary but starving; the hunted hunter. "You're the one who brought us here, after all."

"Why would I bring us here? I don't even know how I could possibly do that," she counters, stepping back unsteadily in her tall heels, her jewelry clinking with the movement.

"Your subconscious is trying to protect something, as far as I can tell." He's striding towards her again. "Even at such a young age, you're quite powerful."

"So it's taken us here?"

"Yes. And you're going to lead me to what I want." He grips her arm and smiles, his eyes briefly flashing red. There is an ugly desperation in his eyes.

Against her will, her feet are moving. They're walking along the plush carpeting, Voldemort latched to her firmly, towards the lifts. The grate slides open and they step inside. "Looks like you're taking us to that room. I wonder...is this a sign you miss it?"

"Maybe it's a sign that _you_ do."

They reach _that_ floor. With legs like lead, she walks down the hall, among the brocade wallpaper and crystal sconces, until they reach the carved door. Inwardly she is screaming, begging for everything in her to _stop_, to not turn that crystal knob. But her movements are not her own, and with a creak, the knob is turning, and the door is swinging open.

* * *

><p>Tom first had to stop at Knockturn Alley; he had a few errands to run before he could finally do the main thing he had meant to do today. Scowling, he appeared with a sharp <em>crack<em> in a shadowed alleyway between Knockturn and Diagon Alleys, wearing his dress robes from the wedding. He brushed at them a bit, and raked a hand through his hair. He squinted in the bright sunlight — where were his Knights?

He felt a stab of irritation, and, still scowling, he began stalking about, in search of them. How dare they not be exactly where they told them to be! Undoubtedly, this was Malfoy's fault: the pathetic fool probably couldn't go more than a few hours without Firewhiskey and a gaggle of adoring girls giggling around him.

Diagon Alley was nearly empty, though it appeared ransacked. Tom frowned, looking around in surprise. He had not expected the chaos of Grindelwald's duel with Dumbledore to actually reach Britain, in spite of all that the fools around him had projected.

Many windows were shattered; barrels and crates were overturned; a pile of racing brooms sat outside the sporting goods store, their tails still smoking.

"We ought to head back, he'll be here soon, and he'll not be happy if he finds us missing," warned a distinctive familiar voice distantly. Tom strained to hear, and he slunk back into the shadows as his Knights rounded the bend of Diagon Alley. They had all pulled their hoods up of their fine traveling cloaks, and were wearing gleaming masks that caught the brilliant autumn sunlight. He silently observed them. Malfoy was in the lead, undoubtedly, though certainly once he realized Tom was there, he'd edge back and look more like a follower than a leader. He recognized Nott and Avery, with Nott's lanky, awkward, storklike stature and Avery's broader one. Cygnus was bringing up the rear, nearly a foot shorter than the other boys, but walking just as confidently.

A gust of chilly air raked through Diagon Alley, bringing with it dead brown leaves and unsettling the ransacked alley. Things were changing.

He stepped out into view, and the four boys screeched to a halt before hastily offering short bows. It was part of their protocol to only offer short, unnoticeable bows, really nothing more than a subtle jerk of the head, when in public.

"Malfoy. Avery. Nott. Black." Tom surveyed them, watching them quickly take off their masks. "I rather like the costumes. Very menacing," he mused. "They'll come in handy for later. Be sure to make some for the others."

"Of course," said Malfoy immediately, in a rather oily voice.

"I have to return to my flat and change. I have an important errand to run today. In the meantime, I need one of you — not you, Black — to return to Black Manor. Potter and Alphard are dueling and I'm not confident for Alphard."

"I'll go. I could easily take down Potter," sneered Avery. Tom arched his brows.

"I would not be so sure of that, Avery. Alphard is by far the most skilled and fierce dueler of you all — but Potter's an Auror now, and it shows. Nott, I think you should go. Alphard's style is offensive and rapid-fire; he'll be happy to have someone more careful, with a more extensive knowledge of Jinxes."

"I'll go at once, my Lord," said Nott, and he turned on the spot. Avery was looking like he was having quite a difficult time of hiding his murderous jealousy, but Malfoy discreetly jabbed at him, prompting him to master himself.

"And what of us, my Lord?" said Malfoy, with another courteous bow. Tom paced thoughtfully.

"Malfoy, I need you at the Ministry — Dumbledore and Grindelwald are dueling and I want you to gather as much information as you can. I know you'll be the most efficient at this. Avery, I want you and Black to go monitor the other Knights."

They parted ways, and Tom hurried to his flat in Knockturn Alley. It was shabby, with the entrance in an alleyway so narrow he had to turn sideways to enter, and up two flights of rickety stairs with more than one trick step. He rushed to his flat, unlocked the door, and immediately began changing into his black suit. He added some cologne and combed his hair with pomade to set it into its usual gleaming, wavy style, and then stepped back to admire his handiwork. He watched himself adjust his tie, his smooth pale lips slowly spreading into a smirk. _Perfect. Irresistible. _

Hepzibah wouldn't be able to resist him.

* * *

><p>Alphard and Geoffrey reappeared outside of the dilapidated Smith Manor, and Geoffrey at once stepped back, briskly brushing off his robes.<p>

"Okay, explain, Black," he ordered immediately, peering about the scenery, as though scrutinizing it. Alphard scratched his head.

"Well, actually, I really don't know," he admitted. "Hermione's inside ... doing... something. I actually have no idea why she's in there."

Geoffrey gave Alphard a level sort of stare, one that plainly was accusing Alphard of being an idiot. He bristled at this look. "We just have to make sure Riddle doesn't stop her."

The two men looked at the Manor and then at each other.

"Well, let's go on in, then," said Geoffrey. He gestured in an over-the-top manner for Alphard to go first. "Ladies first."

"No, age before beauty — you first." Alphard gave Geoffrey a sweet smile as he nodded towards the manor. Geoffrey arched his brows.

"Black, I am not even three weeks older than you."

"Just bloody well _go, _Potter. Enough chatting," Alphard snapped, and he jabbed Geoffrey in the back with his wand.

"Watch it, or I'll break your other nose."

"Har har. Is that a reference to my two-faced nature?" Alphard asked dryly, as they cast Disillusionment Charms on themselves.

"No, I was just being silly — but you're right, you _are_ two-faced. Almost forgot."

"How could you forget when I nearly killed you?"

"You didn't nearly kill me, you were just pretending."

"Maybe. Or I was really planning on—"

"_Shut up _and focus, Black. We've followed Riddle here, then?" Alphard was taken aback by how quickly Geoffrey caught on, and he wondered if Hermione had filled him in on her past in the same way she had explained everything to him. A stab of possessiveness stung him, and it was unexpected: _I thought this was _our_ mission,_ he found himself sulking._  
><em>

"Presumably, but there's always a chance he went somewhere else first. You look in the windows for him; I'll wait here."

"And what do I do if I do find him?"

"Absolutely nothing — just make sure you're not seen."

* * *

><p>Tom turned on the spot and Apparated to a road nearby Hepzibah Smith's manor. On the way, he grabbed a fistful of weeds and Transfigured them into a bouquet of lush roses, and began his walk, his fine black shoes crunching on the dirt-and-stone road beneath him. It was late afternoon, now, and the autumn sun was setting the fields around him aglow. For a moment, he stood there on the road, letting the breeze toy with his hair a bit. He closed his eyes, inhaling the sweet, crisp scent of autumn. Everything was slowly coming together... there was a stirring in his veins as his heart began to race. He was coming closer and closer to his goal...<p>

He soon reached Hepzibah Smith's crumbling manor; the gates protecting it were bent and barely clinging to their rusted hinges, and there was an ominous shriek of a crow as Tom pushed past the creaking gates. The little path leading to the front of the manor was gravel, but so cracked that it was barely visible through the tall grass. He knew this path well — he had been working on Hepzibah for quite a few weeks now, after all. Her life was in utter disarray but one could be sure that she would have plenty of rouge on when he showed up.

Normally, he was more cautious. After all, he was brilliant and shrewd beyond his years. Normally he would have noticed the extra magic in the air, tingling up his spine, and he would have heard the sharp intake of breath as he reached the front door. But he was too focused, too filled with adrenaline at the prospect of acquiring the things he had longed for for so long.

* * *

><p>The open door reveals not the hotel room where she gave herself to Tom, but instead, an opera house. Hermione turns back to look at Voldemort, who looks intrigued.<p>

"I wonder..." he murmurs. "Go on, then."

"Why?"

"You've got no other choice, darling." He nudges her and she finds, again, her feet are moving against her will. There are hundreds of people in the opera house, all of them faceless, and the walls tremble with the undulating voice of the singer.

Hermione knows this place — she came here as a child once, with her parents. Her eyes widen as she recognizes the aria, for two reasons: the opera she saw that night was _Samson et Dalila_, but also, this aria was the one on the radio _that day_ at this hotel, with Tom...

_Redis à ma tendresse  
>les serments d'autrefois,<br>ces serments que j'aimais!  
>Ah! réponds à ma tendresse!<br>Verse-moi, verse-moi l'ivresse!_

She remembers now the meaning behind those lyrics, remembers how meaningless and empty they sounded to her as a young child — yet how filled with meaning they are now! _Repeat to my tenderness the promise of old times... Those promises I loved... _

They walk down the aisle, towards the stage. The opera singer is belting out the lines, each more incisive than the last. The pain is not emotional, it is _physical_, as though a wound or lashing. She alights upon the stage and pauses there, to look back at Voldemort. The bright stage lights are blinding, but he is visible, his angular features cast in high relief from the stage lights, his black hair gleaming white, his skin alabaster, his eyes the deepest darkest black.

"Did you ever feel for me?" The question is out of her mouth before she can contain it. Voldemort looks up at her, cocks his head to the side. "Never mind. You'll only tell me what you think I need to hear, to get me to act how you want me to act. You think we're all puppets — you think you can control us. And you do," she is saying incredulously, her voice choking. "You find the strings connected to us, you toy with them, tugging and pulling, and you _do_ control us."

"I did feel for you. I had never found a person so compelling before. That is the truth."

Hermione turns away and steps fully onto the stage; the lights are too bright and suddenly, she is standing in a world of white. Slowly, the world reforms around her.

"What are we looking for? Why are we here?"

"The Veil."

"I don't know anything about the Veil."

"Liar. You've spent years researching it!"

"You've got the wrong Hermione. I know nothing of the Veil. Truly."

They are standing in the Department of Mysteries. It is empty of the Veil. Hermione turns to face Voldemort, feeling oddly triumphant. She crosses her arms over her chest, regarding him. "You caught the wrong timeline version of me," she continues. "I haven't researched the Veil yet."

"Nonsense — one mind, one same mind. I put the bracelet on you — it should work," he says furiously. Hermione looks down at her wrist, where the lovely bracelet that Tom had given her before the wedding is twined round her wrist. His eyes turn red, and his face contorts in rage. "_Crucio_."

But his spell bounces off of her. This shocks them both. The ground below them shakes, enough to feel like an earthquake. Hermione nearly topples over and grapples for something to hold onto, but the floor cracks in enormous crevasses and then they are falling, falling, falling — into darkness. _  
><em>

* * *

><p>Alphard watched Geoffrey's footsteps in the grass, then, taking his turn, he bolted around to the back of the manor. There was a kitchen garden in unbelievable disrepair, with more weed than any recognizable, edible vegetables, and then a rickety door nearly rusting off its hinges. He held his breath, creeping along the dirt path towards the door. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins.<p>

_What am I doing?_

The inner question came unexpectedly, and gave him pause. Alphard froze. _He'll kill me. _The pure knowledge of his own death, the recognition of its approach, was alien to him, for he was truly such a young man in so many ways. He was recognizing this now, perhaps in full for the first time. His mouth went dry as his throat began to close up. _I'll die. _He had said so many times he was willing to die to create a better world, but suddenly that prospect seemed so much closer, so much more salient, now, of all times.

He'd be hit with the Killing Curse; Riddle wouldn't bother torturing or playing with his food. He wouldn't have time. And then what? What would come after death?

The world felt quite too large, suddenly, as he thought, in racing images, of all the things he had not yet done, all the regrets, all the people he was surprised to find he truly loved. _This might be my last day — no, my last minute — on earth. _

He began to back away.

_If I foil Riddle's plans, he will kill me. _

_Is this actually worth dying for? _

He longed to scream at the unfairness of it all. The right answer, the brave answer, was of course a resounding _yes_. But his heart was providing a different answer entirely, and he was wrought with the urge to find a sympathetic ear. Wasn't it understandable that he didn't want to give his life? Was it truly so evil of him to question whether this cause was worth his life?

For Hermione, she had lost everything - only that was enough to make her willing to give everything to chasing, hunting, and ending Voldemort. But Alphard still had everything.

_But would I have everything? _

...If he left, he would have to give it all up. Riddle would murder everyone important, and Alphard would have to go into hiding. He thought of the briefest glimpses he had gotten in Hermione's mind of his grown-up nephew, the nephew he would one day save from the Black family.

_Toujours Impur. _No matter his choices, he was casting off his last vestiges of identity with the Black family. If he fought Riddle as planned, he would be betraying Purebloods. If he abandoned them, he'd be betraying them as well.

"No." He couldn't breathe. He couldn't make the choice. Alphard turned away from the manor and fell into the tall weeds, the leaves crunching under his knees. He rocked back and forth.

He couldn't make the choice.

Betrayal. Or death.

Panicked, Alphard fumbled for his wand as a new realization hit him: _he didn't have to make this choice. _There was a third choice, wasn't there? He wasn't fond of thinking in this way, but the fact was that he had never really had any choices: his life had been a course set by those before him, edited by those around him. He had always relinquished control, either by choosing to not make a choice, or by choosing the path of least resistance. His parents and family had molded him into the perfect, entitled, cruel-hearted, bigoted Pureblood son — and then Hermione had ripped all those seams, resewing him back together, a new person but forever stitched faulty and loose. He no longer was certain of what he believed in.

_You have the power in your hands_.

Alphard looked down at his wand. His hands were already weather-beaten from years of Quidditch and rough-housing; how much older would they look in five years? Ten years? Thirty years?

_You can choose your own destiny._

The blood was rushing in his ears. Alphard rose to stand, and turned on the spot.

He reappeared not far outside of Hogwarts; it wasn't difficult to find his way back into the school grounds. Students were practicing on the Quidditch field, and Alphard felt a painful rush of nostalgia for what he had lost, what he had been forced to forsake. He turned away from the sunny pitch, to the shadows of the Forbidden Forest, and melted into them.

It didn't take long to find the spot. Alphard stood in the little clear patch where the original Knights meetings had first been held. _This was where I died, _he told himself, turning round to observe his surroundings. _This was where they took everything away from me. All my freedom. _

He had been doomed the moment he met Tom Riddle, and Hermione had only further doomed him.

Alphard had no goodbyes to say, no memories to cherish in his last moments. This was his choice, and this time, he was leaving for good.

_"Avada Kedavra."_


End file.
